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THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

IN 
THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


I 


THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  I^pyBL 

IN  "•■■'•'•-"^ 

THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


A  DISSERTATION 

ubmitted  to  the  Faculty  of  the  University  of  Virginia  in  Partial  Fulfillmant 
of  the  Requiremento  for  the  Degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy. 


B 


CHARLES  HERBER'B  HUFFMAN,  M.  A. 


Published  By 

THE  RUEBUSH-KIEFFER  COMPANY 
DAYTON.  VIRGINIA 


PREFACE 

The  research  for  this  dissertation  was  begun  and  con- 
tinued under  the  direction  of  Professor  John  Calvin 
Metcalf,  of  the  Linden  Kent  Memorial  School  of  English 
Literature  in  the  University  of  Virginia.  A  graduate 
course  in  the  Eighteenth-Century  Novel,  conducted  by 
Professor  Metcalf,  included  an  investigation  and  appraisal 
of  authors'  methods,  aims,  and  purposes.  General  search 
for  this  information  led  to  the  inference  that  the  only  au- 
thoritative source  of  it  was  the  writings  of  the  authors 
themselves;  more  extended  search  led  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  interesting  material  on  the 
subject,  but  that  it  was  scattered  and  disconnected.  It  was 
thought  desirable  to  have  a  collection  of  these  writings, 
arranged  in  a  unified  and  more  accessible  form.  So  far  as 
the  writer  knows,  none  has  been  made.  The  present  work 
is  the  result  of  an  effort  to  perform  this  task. 

The  investigation  begins  with  the  novel  of  character, 
and  includes  within  its  compass  the  literary  productions  by 
leading  authors  only,  from  Richardson  to  Godwin.  The 
inordinate  length  of  many  eighteenth-century  novels  made 
it  apparent  from  the  outset  that  a  detailed  study  of  every 
English  novel  in  this  period  would  be  impossible  within 
the  scope  of  this  dissertation.  But  such,  fortunately,  was 
not  necessary;  for  the  really  great  novelists  blazed  the  trail 
and  pointed  the  way.  Writers  of  less  importance  added 
no  new  theory,  nor  did  they  vary  the  practice  except 
wherein  imitation  and  inferior  literary  talents  led  to  cor- 
ruption. Very  few  references  have  been  made  to  their 
works;  for  in  what  they  said  and  did,  they  but  reflected  the 
judgments  of  their  superiors.  Their  opinions  would  not 
materially  strengthen  this  work. 

The  method  selected  for  this  dissertation  is  to  study  in 
detail  and  to  quote  at  some  length  from  the  prefaces,  intro- 
ductory chapters,  letters,  and  novels  by  leading  English 
novelists  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Selections  have  been 
made  from  each  author,  and  prominence  is  given  to  those 

50T4.8G 


passages  which  disclose  artistic  aims  and  purposes  more  or 
less  common  to  all.  No  attempt  has  beenrmade,  therefore, 
to  include  every  phase  of  this  subject.  The  writer  has 
thought  it  well  to  show  that  in  some  fundamental  matters 
there  was  a  unity  of  methods  and  motives  greater  than  has 
been  generally  recognized.  There  has  been,  too,  but  little 
effort  at  interpretation;  the  quotations  need  none.  "When 
what  is  done  is  either  strange  or  striking,'*  said  Roderick 
Random,  "we  prefer  to  be  told  by  the  very  man  who  did  it." 
Prose  fiction  was  both  strange  and  striking  to  Roderick 
and  his  contemporaries  in  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
masters  of  the  new  art  shall  speak  for  themselves. 

I  wish  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  Mr.  John  S. 
Patton,  Librarian  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  for  helpful 
suggestions  regarding  sources  of  investigation;  to  Miss 
Mary  Louise  Dinwiddle,  Assistant  Librarian,  for  patient 
and  accurate  direction  in  securing  the  sources;  to  my  wife 
for  untiring  assistance  in  preparing  the  manuscript;  to 
Professor  James  Southall  Wilson,  Poe  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish, University  of  Virginia,  who  read  the  book  in  manu- 
script, for  scholarly  criticism  of  its  style.  But  my  deepest 
obligation  is  to  Professor  John  Calvin  Metcalf ,  Linden  Kent 
Memorial  Professor  of  English  Literature,  University  of 
Virginia,  for  stern,  but  kindly  and  sympathetic  criticism 
at  every  step.  His  keen  interest,  his  sound  scholarship,  and 
his  ripe  experience  have  afforded  invaluable  assistance  in 
many  ways. 

C.  H.  H. 
University,  Virginia, 
April,  1920.  i 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

Page 
_Types  Contributory  to  the  Novel 7 

CHAPTER  n 
Rise  of  the  Modern  Novel:   Crystallization  of  Theory  .      24 

CHAPTER  HI 
The  Avowed  Purposes  of  the  Novel 4S 

CHAPTER  IV 
Means  of  Reaching  the  Inner  Life 66 

CHAPTER  V 
The  "Gothic"  Novel  and  Romanticism .      86 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Democratic  Idea 114 

CHAPTER  VII 
Xlonclusions 132 

Bibliography 135 

Index 137 


CHAPTER  I 
TYPES  CONTRIBUTORY  TO  THE  NOVEL 

The  eighteenth  century  was  a  period  of  beginnings.  In 
the  field  of  literature  there  were  many  things  new,  some  of 
which  proved  to  be  permanent.  There  are  many  nine- 
teenth-century verse  forms  that  can  be  traced  to  the  eigh- 
teenth, if,  indeed,  an  exact  counterpart  cannot  be  found  for 
the  first  time  in  the  works  of  that  period.  But  prose  es- 
pecially, in  the  course  of  its  development,  assumed  its 
modern  aspect  then  at  the  hands  of  Dryden,  Addison, 
Defoe,  Swift,  Johnson,  and  Goldsmith.  Dryden  gave 
directness  to  prose;  Addison,  simplicity,  joined  with  re- 
finement and  elegance.  Defoe,  downright  plainness;  Swift, 
precision  and  clearness;  Johnson,  formality,  regularity, 
elevation  and  poise;  Goldsmith,  delicacy,  ease,  grace,  and 
charm.  The  masters  left  these  fundamental  qualities  of 
prose  style  as  a  legacy  to  their  times — a  legacy  that  the 
printer  of  Salisbury  Court  grasped  very  soon  as  a  medium 
for  narrative  expression.  The  rise  of  the  novel  as  a  dis- 
tinct type  of  literature,  therefore,  appears  to  have  been 
almost  contemporaneous  with  the  general  use  of  prose  in 
established  literary  forms.  Professor  Saintsbury  calls  at- 
tention to  uncertainty  of  opinion  in  reference  to  the  exact 
beginning  of  the  English  novel;  but  he  thinks  that  for 
general  purposes  this  uncertainty  may  be  neglected.  "As 
to  the  exact  position  which  the  great  names  of  Bunyan  and 
Defoe  hold,"  he  says,  "difference  may  be  agreed  to  with 
resignation.  What  is  certain  is  that  about  the  beginning 
of  the  second  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  period 
immediately  succeeding  the  appearance  of  Defoe's  work, 
there  began  a  development  of  the  prose  novel,  and  that  this, 
partly  though  by  no  means  wholly  owing  to  one  group  of 
great  writers  in  the  style,  had  made  very  great  progress  by 
the  beginning  of  the  third,  about  which  time  we  find  Lady 


7< 


V 


8  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

Mary  Wortley  Mantagu^  in  Italy  receiving  boxes  full  of  new 
novels  from  her  daughter  in  England."^ 

The  idea  of  social  and  political  equality,  too,  was  taking 
root  even  before  the  middle  of  the  century.  Common  men 
made  their  voices  heard  around  the  world  when  they  de- 
clared, in  1776,  "All  men  are  created  equal";  and  a  little 
later,  "A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That."  But  mutterings  of 
dissatisfaction  were  heard  in  England  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century  before  the  violent  outburst  of  emotion  in 
America.  The  novels  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  Sterne,  and 
Goldsmith  furnished  a  new  and  practicable  outlet  for  pent 
up  feelings.  The  dignity  and  worth  of  the  average  man, 
once  recognized,  put  him  in  readiness  to  take  a  stand  for 
what  he  conceived  himself  to  be:  an  individual  with  many 
rights  hitherto  not  recognized.  But  before  all  this  could 
come  to  pass,  the  social  structure  had  to  be  changed,  or,  at 
least,  the  ideas  then  current  had  to  be  superseded  by  ideals 
of  vastly  broader  range  and  sweep.  Here  was  the  great 
chance  for  fiction.  "It  was  by  no  accident"  then,  as  Pro- 
fessor Phelps  says,  "that  the  novel  was  born  at  that  time."^ 

Before  the  middle  of  the  century  the  theatre  had  in 
large  measure  lost  its  hold  on  English  life  and  thought. 
The  drama  was  soon  in  such  a  decadent  condition  that  it  no 
longer  satisfied  either  those  who  loved  to  see  plays  on  the 
stage  or  those  who  loved  merely  to  read  them.  The  public 
was  ready  and  eager,  therefore,  to  welcome  new  forms  of 
literary  expression.  The  close  relation  of  the  drama  to  the 
novel  in  some  matters  of  structure  and  purpose,  made 
transition  from  the  former  to  the  latter  natural  and  easy. 

But  the  overthrow  of  the  drama  was  not  sudden,  for  the 
reason  that  in  giving  way  to  the  novel,  it  was  clinging  to 
traditional  rights  that  had  long  been  established.  It  was 
thus  some  years  after  the  rise  of  the  novel  before  authors 
themselves  made  due  discrimination  between  these  two 
types.  As  late  as  1764,  Walpole  declared  in  his  preface  to 
"The  Castle  of  Otranto":  "Everything  tends  directly  to  the 
catastrophe.     Never  is  the  reader's  attention  relaxed.     The 


1.  See  her  "Letters  to  the  Countess  of  Bute,"  dated.  Louvre,  Dec.  24,  1750, 

and  Feb.  16.  1752 

2.  George  Salntsbury,  "A  Short  History  of  English  Uterature,"  p.  598. 
S.  William  Uyon  Phelps,  "The  Advance  of  the  English  Novel,"  p.  29. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  9 

rules  of  the  drama  are  almost  observed  throughout  the  con- 
duct of  the  piece."  Indeed  the  rules  of  the  classic  drama 
were  always  dogging  the  heels  of  the  novelist.  Some  of 
Fielding's  plays  were  failures  on  the  stage,  because  they 
too  nearly  resembled  novels.^  Richardson  preferred  to  call 
his  "Clarissa  Harlowe"  a  dramatic  narrative;  and  both  he 
and  Fielding  appended  lists  of  the  "principal  persons."  "It 
is,"  says  Professor  Raleigh,  "as  if  the  novel  were  merely  a 
play  with  its  framework  of  stage  directions  expanded  for 
the  ease  of  the  reader.  And  in  this  form  the  novel  was 
bound  to  supplant  the  play  with  the  reading  public.  ...  A 
new  form  of  literature  that  had  all  the  interest  of  the 
drama,  but  imposed  only  the  slenderest  tax  on  the  reader's 
attention  and  imagination,  was  predestined  to  success."^ 

The  highly  developed  moralizing  tendency  of  the  drama 
continued  its  hold  upon  the  novehsts  because  public  taste 
demanded  it.  From  Richardson  to  the  end  of  the  century, 
authors  felt  a  pressure  from  without,  which  made  it  in- 
evitable for  them  to  acquire  the  homiletic  habit.  The 
eighteenth-century  drama  was  a  ready  means  of  inspiration 
and  guidance  in  this  respect.  The  influence  of  Steele's 
"Conscious  Lovers,"  strictly  a  morkl  disquisition,  can  be 
easily  traced  in  its  effect  upon  Richardson. 

Isabella,  admonishing  her  niece  Indianna  about  placing 
too  much  confidence  in  the  words  of  a  fashionable  man, 
says,  "Ay,  do,  persist  in  your  credulity !  flatter  yourself  that 
a  man  of  his  figure  and  fortune  will  make  himself  the  jest 
of  the  town,  and  marry  a  handsome  beggar  for  love." 

"The  town !"  Indianna  retorts,  "I  must  tell  you  madam, 
the  fools  that  laugh  at  Mr.  Bevil  will  but  make  themselves 
more  ridiculous;  his  actions  are  the  result  of  thinking,  and 
he  has  sense  enough  to  make  even  virtue  fashionable."^ 
This  is  exactly  what  Richardson  tried  to  do. 

Fielding  ridiculed  the  reading  public  because  of  its  in- 
ordinate desire  for  moralizing.  He  thought  that  this  highly 
developed  preference  tended  strongly  toward  a  preverted 
Hterary  tast:  Joseph  was  tied  in  his  host's  upper  chamber  to 


1.  See  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,'*  I.  p.  171. 

2.  Walter  Raleigh,  "The  English  Novel,"  p.  142. 

3.  "The  Conscious  Lovers,**  Act  II,  Sc.  li. 


10  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

one  of  the  bed-posts,  and  Adams  to  the  opposite  one. 
While  Joseph  was  brooding  over  the  loss  of  his  dear  Betty, 
he  burst  out  into  a  soliloquy;  when  asked  by  Adams  what 
stuff  he  was  repeating,  the  sighing  lover  rephed  that  they 
were  some  hues  he  had  got  by  heart  out  of  a  play.  "Aye," 
said  Adams,  "there  is  nothing  but  heathenism  to  be  learned 
from  plays.  I  never  heard  of  any  fit  for  a  Christian  to  read 
but  "Gato"  and  "The  Conscious  Lovers";  and,  I  must  own, 
in  the  latter  there  are  some  things  almost  solemn  enough 
for  a  sermon."^ 

"As  the  democratic  ideas  of  the  Reformation  more  and 
more  prevailed  in  EngUsh  life  in  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,"  says  Professor  Cross,  "the  drama 
came  under  their  influence;  and  before  Richardson  wrote, 
it  had  become  thoroughly  bourgeois.  What  interested  an 
age  which  drove  a  king  into  exile  and  whose  fathers  had 
beheaded  another,  was  not  the  crash  of  a  royal  house,  nor 
the  passions  of  kings  and  princes,  but  the  pathos  of  every- 
day life;  and  it  demanded  of  the  playwright  the  familiar 
"domestica  facta."  Terror  was  banished  from  tragedy, 
and  wit  and  humor  from  comedy,  and  their  places  were 
taken  by  long-drawn-out  scenes  of  distress.  As  a  conse- 
quence, the  drama  lost  its  rapid  movement,  and  soon  ceased 
to  be  at  all.  Dramatic  representations  continued,  but 
where  they  were  not  melodramas  or  imitations  of  Restora- 
tion comedy,  they  were,  in  their  slow  development  of  plot, 
their  analysis,  and  their  moralizing,  either  essays  in  dra- 
matic form,  or  already  sentimental  novels,  rather  than 
tragedies  or  comedies.  The  noveUst  was  thus  from  one 
point  of  view  but  continuing  a  process  that  had  already 
begun."2 

The  decay  of  the  drama  at  this  time  was  inevitable  be- 
cause of  its  limited  range.  It  seemed  incumbent  upon  the 
author  now  to  include  every  aspect  of  human  experience. 
The  "Art  of  Life,"  from  childhood  to  old  age,  which  Field- 
ing set  out  to  describe  in  his  novels,  was  too  broad  and  too 
inclusive  a  thing  for  his  plays.  He  had  spent  the  best 
years  of  his  life  writing  drama  before  he  came  to  write 

1.  "Joseph  Andrews,"  Bk.  lU,  Ch.  xl. 

2.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  Development  of  the  Eoglith  Novel/*  p.  M. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  11 

"Tom  Jones";  he  ceased  writing  plays  because  it  seemed 
advisable  to  do  so.  Reasons  other  than  the  closing  of  his 
theater  forced  him  to  forsake  the  drama  for  newer  and 
fresher  ventures  in  literary  art. 

The  truth  was,  first,  that  more  advanced  ideas  of  life 
were  to  be  conveyed;  and  second,  that  it  was  desired  to 
reach  a  much  wider  reading  public  than  was  accustomed 
to  attend  theatrical  performances.  The  drama  proved  to 
be  inadequate,  therefore,  both  in  scope  and  in  purpose. 
Moreover,  "The  Novel,"  says  Professor  Hamilton,  "is  far 
more  serviceable  than  the  drama  as  a  medium  for  exhibit- 
ing the  gradual  growth  of  character, — the  development  of 
personality  under  influences  extending  over  long  periods 
of  time  and  exerted  in  many  different  places."^  The  time 
had  come  when  the  attention  had  to  be  focussed  upon  in- 
dividuals as  against  nations.  The  growing,  developing  per- 
sonality of  the  individual  the  drama  could  not  portray. 
This  limitation  alone  would  have  foredoomed  the  drama  by 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Its  decay  was  grad- 
ual but  inevitable.  The  modern  novel,  the  most  important 
achievment  of  the  period,  was  erected  upon  its  ruins.^ 

The  essay  and  the  novel  of  the  eighteenth  century  reveal 
many  characteristics  in  common.  The  personal  essays  of 
Addison  and  Steele  show  a  close  relation  to  the  new  type. 
"That  the  essay  and  its  branch  form,  the  character  sketch, 
....  were  contributing  to  the  Novel's  development,  is 
sure,"  says  Professor  Burton.  "The  essay  set  a  new  model 
for  easy,  colloquial  speech:  just  the  manner  for  fiction 
which  was  to  report  the  accent  of  contemporary  society  in 
its  average  utterance.  And  the  sketch,  seen  in  its  delightful 
efflorescence  in  Sir  Roger  De  Coverly  papers  series  by  Ad- 
dison, is  fiction  in  a  sense:  differing  therefrom  in  its  slighter 
framework,  and  the  aim  of  the  writer,  which  first  of  all  is 
the  deHcate  delineation  of  personality,  not  plot  and  the 
study  of  the  social  complex.  ...  A  wide  survey  of  the 
Enghsh  essay  from  its  inception  with  Bacon  in  the  early 


h 


1.  Clayton  Hamilton,  "Materials  and  Methods  of  FicUon."  p.  163. 

2.  See  Sidney  Lanier,  "The  English  Novel,"  p.  267. 


h 


\ 


12  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

seventeenth  century  will  impress  the  inquirer  with  its  fluid 
nature  and  natural  outflow  into  full-fledged  fiction."* 

In  so  far  as  the  character-sketch  was  concerned,  Rich- 
ardson and  Fielding  added  very  httle.  They  found  it  fully 
developed  in  Addison's  and  in  Steele's  essays,  and  they  fol- 
lowed closely  the  methods  used  by  the  essayists.  Indeed 
they  could  hardly  have  done  otherwise,  for  those  vivid  de- 
lineations exactly  suited  their  purpose,  namely  the  individ- 
ualization of  their  fellow  countrymen.  "The  dreary  Char- 
acter of  the  seventeenth  century,  which  would  have  ren- 
dered Sir  Roger  as  'An  Old  Country  Knight,'  and  Will 
Honeycomb  as  *A  Mere  Town  Gallant,'  "  says  Professor 
\  Raleigh,  "has  received  his  death-blow  in  these  (essay) 
sketches,  drawn  by  men  who  loved  the  individual  better 
than  the  type,  and  delighted  in  precisely  those  touches  of 
character,  eccentricities  and  surprises,  that  gave  life  to  a 
literary  portrait.  The  keen  undiscriminating  satire  of  the 
generic  description  has  given  way  to  the  gentle  atmosphere 
of  humor  that  envelopes  and  illumines  the  character  of  Sir 
Roger,  disarming  the  dogmatist  by  showing  him  that  this 
man's  very  faults  were  loveable,  and  that  his  virtues  may 
be  smiled  at  as  well  as  praised. "^ 

No  one  can  read  Fielding's  characterizations  of  squire 
Western  without  perceiving  that  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly — the 
lover  of  the  hunt — must  have  been  the  prototype.  One 
day  the  squire  was  pursuing  his  daughter  who  had  fled 
from  his  roof.  He  was  zealous  and  eager  to  overtake  her; 
but  on  this  fine  morning  attachment  to  his  hounds  proved 
stronger  than  affection  for  his  daughter  Sophia: 

"In  this  (Worcester)  road  he  proceeded  about  two 
miles,  when  he  began  to  bemoan  himself  most  bitterly,  fre- 
quently crying  out,  'What  pity  is  it!  Sure  never  was  so 
unlucky  a  dog  as  myself !'  And  then  burst  forth  a  volley  of 
oaths  and  execrations." 

When  the  parson  tried  to  comfort  him  with  the  hope 
that  he  might  soon  overtake  his  daughter,  the  squire  re- 
plied: 


/ 


1.  Richard  Burton,  "Masters  of  the  English  Novel,**  pp.  7-8. 

2.  Walter  Raleigh,  "The  English  Novel,*'  pp.  121-122. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  IS 

"  Togh !  d — n  the  slut !  I  am  lamenting  the  loss  of  so 
fine  a  morning  for  hunting.  It  is  confounded  hard  to  lose 
one  of  the  best  scenting  days,  in  all  appearance,  which  hath 
been  this  season,  and  especially  after  so  long  a  frost.'  "^ 

The  yelping  of  the  hounds  is  too  much  for  him.  At  the 
signal,  he  turns  from  the  road  and  dashes  after  them. 

The  character  of  the  narrative  element,  especially  in  the 
first  novels  of  Richardson  and  Fielding,  resembles  very 
closely  that  of  the  essay.  There  is  very  little  plot  in  the  es- 
say narratives  and  usually  there  are  no  traces  of  plan. 
Richardson  frankly  admitted  that  he  wrote  without  defi- 
nite plan:  **I  am  a  very  irregular  writer,"  he  wrote  to 
Lady  Bradshaigh,  "can  form  no  plan,  nor  write  after  what 
I  preconceived."  The  plots  of  most  of  the  earlier  novels  of 
the  period  were  loosely  constructed;  and  some  of  them  con- 
sisted merely  of  a  series  of  incidents  joined  by  a  single 
character.  Smollett's  "Roderick  Random"  is  a  fair  ex- 
ample of  the  loose  plots  of  the  period. 

The  nature  of  the  material,  too,  shows  that  the  influence  ^ 
of  the  essay  was  very  potent  on  the  novel  in  its  early  stages 
of  development.  Addison  and  Steele,  especially  the  latter, 
set  the  pace  for  moralizing.  Novelists  caught  the  step  at 
once,  and  slightly  quickened  it  as  they  proceeded.  Rich- 
ardson admits  as  much  when,  speaking  through  Grandma 
Shirley,  he  reminds  the  young  ladies  that,  because  of  the 
kind  of  reading  now  in  fashion,  they  have  fallen  into  hap- 
pier days  than  was  her  lot  when  she  was  a  girl  of  sixteen. 
He  makes  her  say  furthermore:  "The  present  age  is  greatly 
obligated  to  the  authors  of  the  Spectators."^ 

When  he  began  writing  the  series  of  Familiar  Letters 
"to  instruct  handsome  girls,  who  were  obliged  to  go  out  to 
service  .  .  .  how  to  avoid  the  snares  that  might  be  laid 
against  their  virtue,"  Richardson  said  that  this  story  (Pa- 
mela) ,  which  he  had  heard  many  years  before,  recurred  to 
his  mind.  In  all,  he  said,  he  had  been  thinking  of  such  a 
story  for  nearly  thirty  years.  The  similarity  of  his  first 
story  to  the  one  that  had  appeared  in  the  Spectator  about 
twenty-eight  years  before  the  publication  of  "Pamela," 


V 


1.  •Tom  Jones,**  Bk.  XH,  Ch.  U. 

2.  "Sir  Charles  Grandlson,**  Vm,  Letter  xir. 


14  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

shows  that  he  probably  got  his  first  clew  from  the  essay 
narrative.  It  is  quoted  in  full  because  of  its  interest  when 
compared  with  the  Pamela  story: 

Saturday,  May  10,  1712. 

"I  have  more  than  once  had  occasion  to  mention  a 
noble  saying  of  Seneca  the  philosopher,  that  a  virtuous 
person  struggling  with  misfortunes,  and  rising  above 
them,  is  an  object  on  which  the  gods  themselves  may 
look  down  with  delight.  I  shall  therefore  set  before 
my  reader  a  scene  of  this  kind  of  distress  in  private 
life,  for  the  speculation  of  this  day. 

"An  eminent  citizen,  who  had  lived  in  good  fashion 
and  credit,  was  by  a  train  of  accidents,  and  by  an  un- 
avoidable perplexity  in  his  affairs,  reduced  to  a  low 
condition,  which  made  him  rather  choose  to  reduce  his 
manner  of  living  to  his  present  circumstances  than 
solicit  his  friends  in  order  to  support  the  show  of  an 
estate  when  the  substance  was  gone.  His  wife,  who 
was  a  woman  of  sense  and  virtue,  behaved  herself  on 
this  occasion  with  uncommon  decency,  and  never  ap- 
peared so  amiable  in  his  eyes  as  now.  Instead  of  up- 
braiding him  with  the  ample  fortune  she  had  brought, 
or  the  many  great  offers  she  had  refused  for  his  sake, 
she  redoubled  all  the  instances  of  her  affection,  while 
her  husband  was  continually  pouring  out  his  heart  to 
her  in  complaints  that  he  had  ruined  the  best  woman 
in  the  world.  He  sometimes  came  home  at  a  time 
when  she  did  not  expect  him,  and  surprised  her  in 
tears,  which  she  endeavoured  to  conceal,  and  always 
put  on  an  air  of  cheerfulness  to  receive  him.  To  les- 
sen their  expense,  their  eldest  daughter  (whom  I  shall 
call  Amanda)  was  sent  into  the  country,  to  the  house 
of  an  honest  farmer,  who  had  married  a  servant  of 
the  family.  The  young  woman  was  apprehensive  of 
the  ruin  which  was  approaching,  and  had  privately  en- 
gaged a  friend  in  the  neighborhood  to  give  her  an  ac- 
count of  what  passed  from  time  to  time  in  her  father's 
affairs.  Amanda  was  in  the  bloom  of  her  beauty; 
when  the  lord  of  the  manor,  who  often  called  in  at  the 
farnier's  house  as  he  followed  his  country  sports,  fell 
passionately  in  love  with  her.  He  was  a  man  of  great 
generosity,  but  from  a  loose  education  had  constructed 
a  hearty  aversion  to  marriage.  He  therefore  enter- 
tained a  design  upon  Amanda's  virtue,  which  at  pres- 
ent he  thought  fit  to  keep  private.  The  innocent 
creature,  who  never  suspected    his    intentions,    was 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


15 


pleased  with  his  person;  and  having  observed  his 
growing  passion  for  her,  hoped  by  so  advantageous _a 
match  she  might  quickly  be  in  a  capacity  of  support- 
ing her  impoverished  relations.  One  day  as  he  called 
to  see  her  he  found  her  in  tears  over  a  letter  she  had 
just  received  from  her  friend,  which  gave  an  account 
that  her  father  had  lately  been  stripped  of  every  thing 
by  an  execution.  The  lover,  who  with  some  difficulty 
found  out  the  cause  of  her  grief,  took  this  occasion  to 
make  her  a  proposal.  It  is  impossible  to  express 
Amanda's  confusion,  when  she  found  his  pretentions 
were  not  honourable.  She  was  now  deserted  of  all 
her  hopes,  and  had  no  power  to  speak:  but  rushing 
from  him  in  this  utmost  disturbance,  locked  herself  in 
her  chamber.  He  immediately  dispatched  a  mes- 
senger to  her  father  with  the  following  letter: 

"Sir, 

**  *I  have  heard  of  your  misfortune,  and  have  offer- 
ed your  daughter,  if  she  will  live  with  me,  to  settle  on 
her  four  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  to  lay  down  the 
sum  for  which  you  are  now  distressed.  I  will  be  so 
ingenuous  as  to  tell  you  that  I  do  not  intend  marriage; 
but,  if  you  are  wise,  you  will  use  your  authority  with 
her  not  to  be  too  nice,  when  she  has  an  opportunity  of 
saving  you  and  your  family,  and  of  making  herself 
happy. 

*I  am,  &c.' 

"This  letter  came  to  the  hands  of  Amanda's 
mother;  she  opened  and  read  it  with  great  surprise 
and  concern.  She  did  not  think  it  proper  to  explain 
herself  to  the  messenger,  but  desiring  him  to  call  again 
the  next  morning,  she  wrote  to  her  daughter  as  "fol- 
lows: 

"Dearest  Child, 

"  *Your  father  and  I  have  received  a  letter  from  a 
gentleman,  who  pretends  love  to  you,  with  a  proposal 
that  insults  our  misfortunes,  and  would  throw  us  to  a 
lower  degree  of  misery  than  any  thing  which  is  come 
upon  us.  How  could  this  barbarous  man  think  that 
the  tenderest  of  parents  would  be  tempted  to  supply 
their  wants  by  giving  up  the  best  of  children  to  infamy 
and  ruin?  It  is  a  mean  and  cruel  artifice  to  make  this 
proposal  at  a  time  when  he  thinks  our  necessities  must 
compel  us  to  any  thing;  but  we  will  not  eat  the  bread 
of  shame;  and  therefore  we  charge  thee  not  to  think  of 
us,  but  to  avoid  the  snare  which  is  laid  for  thy  virtue. 


16  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

Beware  of  pitying  us;  it  is  not  so  bad  as  you,  perhaps, 
have  been  told.  All  things  will  yet  be  well,  and  I  shall 
write  my  child  better  news. 

"  *I  have  been  interrupted;  I  know  not  how  I  was 
moved  to  say  things  would  mend.  As  I  was  going  on, 
I  was  startled  by  the  noise  of  one  that  knocked  at  the 
door,  and  hath  brought  us  an  unexpected  supply  of 
debt  which  had  long  been  owing.  Oh !  I  will  now  tell 
thee  all.  It  is  some  days  I  have  lived  almost  without 
support,  having  conveyed  what  little  money  I  could 
raise  to  your  poor  father.  Thou  wilt  weep  to  think 
where  he  is,  yet  be  assured  he  will  soon  be  at  liberty. 
That  cruel  letter  would  have  broken  his  heart,  but  I 
have  concealed  it  from  him.  I  have  no  companion  at 
present  besides  little  Fanny,  who  stands  watching  my 
looks  as  I  write,  and  is  crying  for  her  sister.  She  says 
she  is  sure  you  are  not  well,  having  discovered  that  my 
present  trouble  is  about  you.  But  do  not  think  I 
would  thus  repeat  my  sorrows  to  grieve  thee.  No,  it 
is  to  entreat  thee  not  to  make  them  insupportable,  by 
adding  what  would  be  worse  than  all.  Let  us  bear 
cheerfully  an  affliction,  which  we  have  not  brought  on 
ourselves,  and  remember  there  is  a  Power  who  can 
better  deliver  us  out  of  it,  than  by  the  loss  of  thy  in- 
nocence. Heaven  preserve  my  dear  child! 
Thy  affectionate  mother. 


"The  messenger,  notwithstanding  he  promised  to 
deliver  this  letter  to  Amanda,  carried  it  first  to  his 
master,  who  he  imagined  would  be  glad  to  have  an  op- 
portunity of  giving  it  into  her  hands  himself.  His 
master  was  impatient  to  know  the  success  of  his  pro- 
posal, and  therefore  broke  open  the  letter  privately  to 
see  the  contents.  He  was  not  a  little  moved  at  so  true 
a  picture  of  virtue  in  distress;  but  at  the  same  time, 
was  infinitely  surprised  to  find  his  offers  rejected. 
However  he  resolved  not  to  suppress  the  letter,  but 
carefully  sealed  it  up  again,  and  carried  it  to  Amanda. 
All  his  endeavours  to  see  her  were  in  vain,  till  she  was 
assured  he  brought  a  letter  from  her  mother.  He 
would  not  part  with  it  but  upon  condition  that  she 
would  read  it  without  leaving  the  room.  While  she 
was  perusing  it,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  face  with  the 
deepest  attention.  Her  concern  gave  a  new  softness 
to  her  beauty;  and  when  she  burst  into  tears,  he  could 
no  longer  refrain  from  bearing  a  part  of  her  sorrow, 
and  telling  her,  that  he  too  had  read  the  letter,  and  was 


m  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  17 

resolved  to  make  reparation  for  having  been  the  oc- 
casion of  it.  My  reader  will  not  be  displeased  to  see 
the  second  epistle  which  he  wrote  to  Amanda's 
mother: — 

"  *Madam, 

"  *I  am  full  of  shame,  and  will  never  forgive  myself 
if  I  have  not  your  pardon  for  what  I  lately  wrote.  It 
was  far  from  my  intention  to  add  trouble  to  the  af- 
flicted; nor  could  any  thing,  but  my  being  a  stranger  to 
you,  have  betrayed  me  into  a  fault,  for  which,  if  I  live, 
I  shall  endeavour  to  make  amends,  as  a  son.  You  can- 
not be  unhappy  while  Amanda  is  your  daughter;  nor 
shall  be,  if  any  thing  can  prevent  it,  which  is  in  the 
power  of, 

*Madam, 
*Your  most  obedient  humble  servant. 


*This  letter  he  sent  by  his  steward,  and  soon  after 
went  up  to  town  himself  to  complete  the  generous  act 
he  had  now  resolved  on.  By  his  friendship  and  assist- 
ance Amanda's  father  was  quickly  in  a  condition  of 
retrieving  his  perplexed  aff'airs.  To  conclude,  he  mar- 
ried Amanda,  and  enjoyed  the  double  satisfaction  of 
having  restored  a  worthy  family  to  their  former  pros- 
perity, and  of  making  himself  happy  by  an  alliance  to 
their  virtues."^ 

Any  one  familiar  with  "Pamela"  will  detect  at  once  the 
likeness  between  these  two  stories.  Here  are  the  poor  par- 
ents, honest  to  the  core,  but  by  a  reverse  of  fortune  reduced 
to  poverty.  To  relieve  their  distress,  the  eldest  daughter, 
comely  and  beautiful,  is  sent  into  the  country  where  a  rich 
lord  of  the  manor  falls  passionately  in  love  with  her.  He 
has  a  natural  aversion  to  marriage,  and  consequently  enter- 
tains base  designs  against  her  virtue.  She  is  much  pleased 
with  his  person,  and,  not  suspecting  his  pruriency,  quietly 
encourages  his  advances.  She  is  willing  to  play  for  an  ad- 
vantageous match,  which  will  enable  her  to  support  her 
relatives.  She  receives  a  letter  from  her  parents  which  re- 
minds her  of  their  distress.  The  tears  gush  out.  In  this 
manner  she  creates  the  pathos  by  which  she  hopes  to  arouse 
her  lover's  sympathy,  and  thus  hasten  the  nuptials,       It 


I 


1.  "The  Spectator."  No.  375. 


4 


18  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

works.  More  letters,  which  the  lover  intercepts,  are  allow- 
ed to  pass  between  the  young  woman  and  her  parents.  The 
lord  of  the  manor  marries  the  young  nymph,  because  she 
has  succeeded  in  preserving  her  virtue  as  pure  and  white  as 
new  fallen  snow.  The  parents  are  raised  at  once  to  a  po- 
sition of  affluence,  and  all  are  happy.  Here  is  the  subject 
matter  of  Samuel  Richardson's  "Pamela,"  the  first  novel  of 
character. 

Another  essay  narrative  that  bears  an  equally  close  re- 
semblance to  the  novel  is  Addison's  "Vision  of  Mirza."  It 
appears  that  Johnson  appropriated  the  theme  and  some  of 
the  subject  matter  of  this  story  for  his  "Rasselas."  Mirza 
ascends  the  hills  of  Bagdad  in  order  to  pass  the  day  in  medi- 
tation and  prayer:  "As  I  was  here,"  he  says,  "I  fell  into  a 
profound  contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life;  and 
passing  from  one  thought  to  another,  *Surely,'  said  I,  *man 
is  but  a  shadow,  and  life  a  dream'."  He  then  meets  the 
Genius  who  lifts  him  from  the  ground  and  takes  him  by  the 
hand  and  says,  "Mirza,  I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies, 
follow  me." 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and 
placing  me  on  top  of  it,  *Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,'  said  he, 
*and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.'  'I  see,'  said  I,  *a  huge  valley 
and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.'  The 
valley  thou  seest,'  said  he,  *is  the  Vale  of  Misery,  and  the 
tide  of  Eternity.'  " 

Over  the  bridge  a  great  multitude  were  endeavoring  to 
pass;  but  "hidden  pit-falls  were  set  very  thick  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner 
broke  through  the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them. 
They  grew  thinner  toward  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and 
lay  close  together  toward  the  ends  of  the  arches  that  were 
entire." 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number 
was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  march  on  the 
broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another,  being 
quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk." 

"  'What  mean,'  said  I,  Hhose  great  flights  of  birds  that 
are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  settling 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  19 

upon  it  from  time  to  time?  I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens, 
cormorants,  and  among  many  other  featherd  creatures, 
several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon 
the  middle  arches.'  These,'  said  the  Genius,  *are  Envy, 
Avarice,  Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with  like  cares  and 
passions  that  infest  human  life.' 

"I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  'Alas!'  said  I,  *man  was 
made  in  vain!  how  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mor- 
tality !  tortured  in  life  and  swallowed  up  in  death.'  "^ 

Compare  with  the  above  the  sentiments  in  "Rasselas." 
The  Princess  and  her  brother  after  long  wandering  in 
search  of  real  happiness,  at  length  returned  to  the  banks  of 
the  Nile  where  they  related  the  experiences  of  the  day. 
"As  they  were  sitting  together  the  Princess  cast  her  eyes 
upon  the  river  that  flowed  before  her.  'Answer,'  said  she, 
'great  father  of  waters,  thou  that  rollest  thy  floods  through 
eighty  nations,  to  the  invocations  of  the  daughter  of  thy 
native  king.  Tell  me  if  thou  waterest  in  all  thy  course  a 
single  habitation  from  which  thou  dost  not  hear  the  mur- 
murs of  complaint.' " 

"  'You  are  then,'  said  Rasselas,  'not  more  successful  in 
private  houses  than  I  have  been  in  courts.'  'I  have,'  .... 
said  the  Princess,  'enabled  myself  to  enter  familiarly  into 
many  families,  where  there  was  the  fairest  show  of  pros- 
perity and  peace,  and  know  not  one  house  that  is  not  haunt- 
ed by  some  fury  that  destroys  their  quiet.'  "^ 

"  'Those  that  lie  here  stretched  before  us,  the  wise  and 
the  powerful  of  ancient  times,  warn  us  to  remember  the 
shortness  of  our  present  state;  they  were  perhaps  snatched 
away  while  they  were  busy,  like  us,  in  the  "choice  of 
life".'  "3 

"Of  those  wishes  they  had  formed  they  well  knew  that 
none  could  be  obtained."'* 

"Just  a  year  before  completing  his  masterpiece,"  says 
Professor  Whiteford,  "Addison  composed  'The  Vision  of 
Mirza,'  in  the  "Spectator,"  in  which  is  the  oriental  bridge  on 


1.  "The  Spectator,"  No.  159. 

2.  "Rasselas,"  Ch.  xxv. 

3.  "Ibid.,"  Ch.  xlvlU. 

4.  "Ibid.,"  Ch.  xlix. 


20  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

which  Samuel  Johnson  built  his  "Rasselas"  (1759).  No 
happiness  came  to  any  mortal  who  tried  to  cross  the  arches 
erected  in  the  hollow  valley  of  Bagdad,  nor  was  it  to  be 
found  in  or  outside  of  the  Prince  of  Abyssinia's  happy  val 
Iey."i 

The  art  of  letter-writing,  so  highly  developed  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  also  contributed  much  to  the  develop- 
ment of  the  novel.  The  letters  of  Richardson,  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Mantagu,  and  Horace  Walpole  are  today  univer- 
sally recognized  as  literature.  Before  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  these  letters  were  supplying  topics  for 
conversation  and  scenes  from  familiar  life  that  were  almost 
exact  counterparts  of  those  we  find  a  little  later  in  the  novel.  - 
"Letter-writing,"  says  Miss  Thompson,  "was,  in  fact,  re- 
garded as  an  art,  and  letters  seemed  to  have  filled  in  some 
degree  the  part  played  by  the  magazine  or  the  newspaper  of 
today;  they  were  passed  round  from  house  to  house,  copied 
and  recopied,  and  read  over  and  over  again  on  long  winter 
evenings  and  in  quiet  country  places  where  any  message 
from  the  outside  world  was  acceptable."^ 

Richardson  himself  loved  to  indite  letters  so  much  that 
he  wrote  three  long  novels  in  the  epistolary  style.  He  priz- 
ed the  art  so  highly  that  he  usually  made  the  charms  of  his 
heroines  conspicious  in  proportion  to  their  ability  as  letter- 
writers.  "I  have  seen  more  of  your  letters  than  you  im- 
agine," Mr.  B.  informed  Pamela,  adding,  "and  am  quite 
overcome  with  your  charming  manner  of  writing,  so  free, 
so  easy  ....  "^    "You,  Madam,"  Emily  Jervois  wrote  to  -r 

Harriet  Byron,  "  are  *such'  a  writer,  and  I  am  such  a  *poor 
thing'  at  my  pen! — But  I  know  you  will  accept  the  heart. 
And  so  my  very  diffidence  shows  pride;  since  it  cannot  be 
expected  from  me  to  be  a  fine  writer.  And  yet  this  very 
letter,  I  foresee,  will  be  the  worse  for  my  diffidence,  and  not 
the  better:  for  I  don't  like  this  beginning  neither. — But 
come,  it  shall  go."*  Lovelace  delights  in  writing:  Whether 
at  Lord  M's,  or  Lady  Betty's  or  Lady  Sarah's,  he  has  always 
a  pen  in  his  fingers  when  he  retires.     One  of  his  compan- 


1.  Robert  NayTor  Whlteford,  "Motives  In  English  Fiction,"  p.  88. 

2.  Clara  L.  Thompson,  "Samuel  Richardson,"  pp.  144-145. 

3.  "Pamela,"  I,  Letter  xxx. 

4.  "Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  IV,  Letter  xxxix. 


I 


m  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  21 

ions  (confirming  his  love  of  writing)  has  told  her  (Mrs. 
Fortesque)  that  his  thoughts  flow  rapidly  to  his  pen."^ 
Both  Pamela  and  Clarissa  kept  "memorandums"  of  all 
their  letters. 

"That  you  and  I,  my  dear,  should  love  to  write,  is  no 
wonder,"  Miss  Howe  wrote  to  Clarissa,  and  added:  "We 
have  always,  from  the  time  each  could  hold  a  pen,  delighted 
in  epistolary  correspondencies."^  "Early  familiar  Letter- 
writing,"  Richardson  declared  in  'Clarissa,'  "is  one  of  the 
greatest  openers  and  improvers  of  the  mind  that  man  or 
woman  can  be  employed  in."  And  the  author  explains  in 
the  preface  just  why  this  is  so:  first,  these  letters  are  "be- 
tween two  young  ladies  of  virtue  and  honor,  bearing  an 
inviolable  friendship  for  each  other;"  second,  they  write 
"not  merely  for  amusement,  but  upon  the  most  'interest- 
ing' subjects;"  and  third,  each  has  the  knack  of  writing  a 
style  that  is  very  "lively  and  affecting,"  sometimes  approxi- 
mating "strokes  of  gaiety,  fancy  and  humor. "^ 

Richardson's  long  practice  in  letter-writing  explains 
only  in  part  his  reason  for  choosing  the  epistolary  method; 
for  he  certainly  discovered  in  the  personal,  friendship  let- 
ter of  his  time  some  characteristics  that  soon  proved  to  be 
elementary  and  fundamental  in  the  new  art.  But  those 
characteristics  were  just  as  important  in  developing  the 
novel  subsequently,  no  matter  which  method  of  telling  the 
story  was  used.  First,  eighteenth-century  epistles  were 
full  of  admirable  character-sketches.  This  was  true  not 
only  of  private  correspondence,  but  also  of  those  letters  that 
appeared  in  the  essay.  "To  them  (Addison  and  Steele) 
belong  the  credit  of  discovering  that  the  epistle  could  be- 
come a  picturesque  type  of  character-sketch."'*  One  reason ' 
why  the  novel  was  so  interesting  and  popular  in  the  eight- 
eenth century  was  the  fact  that  readers  were  given  pictures 
of  those  men  and  women  whose  exact  counterpart  they 
had  seen  in  actual  life.  Richardson  succeeded  in  indi- 
vidualizing the  sketches  in  his  novel-letters  largely  by  the 
process  of  introspection.     "The  letters  and  conversations. 


1.  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  I,  Letter  xii. 

2.  "Ibid." 

3.  "Preface  to  Clarissa  Harlowe." 

4.  "Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature/*  IX.  p.  67. 


22  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

where  the  story  makes  the  slowest  progress,  are  presumed 
to  be  'characteristic*,"  he  says  in  his  postscript  to  "Clar- 
rissa,"  and  adds:  "They  give  occasion,  Ukewise,  to  suggest 
many  interesting  personaUties."* 

Again,  the  subject  matter  of  familiar,  personal  letters 
was  almost  exactly  the  same  as  that  which  Richardson  put 
into  the  letters  of  his  novels.  The  letters,  he  told  his  read- 
ers, are  upon  the  most  "interesting"  subjects;  and  that  they 
are  "occasionally  interspersed  with  such  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment, particularly  with  regard  to  the  other  sex;  such  in- 
stances of  impartiality,  each  freely,  as  a  fundamental  prin- 
ciple of  their  friendship,  blaming,  praising,  and  setting 
right  the  other  as  are  strongly  to  be  recommended.  .  .  .  "^ 
In  this  respect,  the  letter  did  much  to  bring  the  novel  closer 
to  life,  since  one  of  the  characteristics  of  private  letters  is 
the  revelation,  conscious  or  unconscious,  of  the  secrets  of 
private  life.  Novelists  no  doubt  discovered  this  natural 
element  in  the  eighteenth-century  letter;  and  they  used  it  at 
/  least  for  the  purpose  of  making  the  sentiments,  aimed  di- 
rectly at  instruction,  look  natural  and  plausible. 
,'  Then  too  the  letter  is  very  closely  allied  to  the  soliloquy. 
And  of  course  some  such  device  as  this  was  useful,  not  only 
as  a  natural  transition  from  the  drama  then  decaying,  but 
also  for  dramatic  effect.  "The  letters  are  written,"  says 
Richardson,  "while  the  heart  of  the  writers  must  be  sup- 
posed to  be  wholly  engaged  in  their  subjects."  "The  events 
of  the  time,"  he  says,  "are  generally  dubious,"  thus  giving 
rise  to  "critical  situations."  "  'Instantaneous'  descriptions 
and  reflections"  must  be  written  down  "in  the  height  of 
'present'  distress."^  The  dramatic  character  of  Richardson's 
letters  in  "Pamela,"  and  especially  in  "Clarissa  Harlowe," 
reminds  one  forcibly  of  Browning's  Dramatic  Monologues 
a  century  later.  At  some  pinnacle  moment  of  life,  the 
character  must  decide  at  once  for  his  weal  or  woe.  There 
could  be  no  better  method  of  individualization  than  this,  for 
each  character  is  delineated  from  within  outward — from 
the  thought  to  the  execution  of  it — every  step  completed  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  reader.     "The  very  repetition  which  the 


1.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

2.  Preface  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

3.  -Ibid.'* 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  23 

(letter)  method  involves,"  says  Richardson's  biographer, 
Miss  Thompson,  "gives  wonderful  definiteness  to  the  char- 
acterization." 

The  decay  of  the  drama  through  the  second  quarter 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  made  possible  a  more  intense 
study  of  character  because  of  the  greater  range  of  the 
novel;  for  in  this  type  there  could  be  depicted  a  growing, 
developing  personality.  The  essay  furnished  admirable 
topics  for  conversation  and  instruction.  Generally  moral 
in  tone,  the  gentle  satire  of  the  essay  directed  attention  to 
practical,  homely  affairs.  The  prose  love-story  in  its  in- 
fancy and  the  character-sketch  well  developed  were  ready 
to  the  novelist's  hand.  The  familiar  letter  suggested  a 
great  variety  of  subjects — ^personal,  domestic,  social,  re- 
Ugious,  political — subjects  that  were  live,  vital,  and  timely. 
And  the  soliloquy,  in  its  dramatic  effect,  greatly  aided  in 
the  revelation  of  the  inner  life  and  character. 

"The  novel  of  personal  life,  of  individual,  separate,  do- 
mestic life,"  says  Professor  Stoddard,  "is  the  basal  form."i 
In  the  second  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century  this  basal 
form  had  its  beginning,  because  the  times  were  ripe  for  it. 


1.  Francis  Hovey  Stoddard.  "The  Evolution  of  the  English  Novel*"  P.  •• 


CHAPTER  II 

RISE  OF  THE  MODERN  NOVEL:     CRYSTALLIZATION 

OF  THEORY 

The  author  of  "Pamela"  informs  us  that  the  origin  of 
this  novel  was  "owing  to  an  accident";  but  there  is  evidence 
that  even  before  he  had  completed  the  first  part  of  it,  he 
was  aware  of  having  created  a  new  kind  of  writing.  Six 
years  after  this  innovation  in  English  fiction,  Richardson 
wrote  to  his  friend  Aron  Hill,  admitting  his  consciousness 
of  the  fact  while  writing  the  book,  that  he  was  intro 
ducing  something  new.  "Little  did  I  think  at  first,  of  mak- 
ing one  much  less  two  volumes  of  it.  ...  I  thought  the  story, 
if  written  in  an  easy  and  natural  manner,  suitable  to  the 
simpHcity  of  it,  might  possibly  introduce  a  new  species  of 
writing.  .  .  ."i  Encouraged  by  the  success  of  the  first  part, 
he  deemed  it  wise  to  refer  briefly  in  his  preface  to  the  sec- 
ond part  of  what  doubtless  had  seemed  strange.  He  hoped 
that  his  readers  would  discover,  in  the  second  part  as  in  the 
first,  "rules,  equally  new  and  practicable,  inculcated, 
throughout  the  whole,  for  the  general  conduct  of  life."^ 

No  doubt  Henry  Fielding  was  more  conscious  of  his  art 
in  his  first  novel,  "Joseph  Andrews,"  than  was  the  author  of 
"Pamela"  in  his.  This  "lewd  and  ungenerous  engraft- 
ment,"  as  Richardson  pronounced  it,  had  converted  the 
prudent,  virtuous  Pamela,  into  a  scheming,  selfish  Shamela. 
But  Fielding,  true  artist  that  he  was,  could  not  long  con- 
tinue the  parody;  for  he  very  soon  discovered  to  his  grati- 
fication that  his  book  was  beginning  to  differ  in  important 
particulars  from  the  first  novel.  "As  it  is  possible  the  mere 
English  reader  may  have  a  different  idea  of  romance  with 
the  author  of  these  little  volumes,"  he  writes  in  the  preface, 
"and  may  consequently  expect  a  kind  of  entertainment 
not  to  be  found,  nor  which  was  even  intended,  in  the  follow- 
ing pages,  it  may  not  be  improper  to  premise  a  few  words 


1.  Barbauld,  "Correspondence  of  Richardson/'  I,  p.  IxxHI, 

2.  "PameW  Preface  to  the  Second  Part. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 

concerning  this  kind  of  writing,  which  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  seen  hitherto  attempted  in  our  language."^  Refer- 
ring to  the  character  of  Adams,  he  says,  "As  it  is  the  most 
glaring  in  the  whole,  so  I  conceive  it  is  not  to  be  found  in 
any  book  now  extant."^ 

Undoubtedly  Fielding  at  first  had  intended  "Joseph  An- 
drews" for  burlesque,  which  he  certainly  carried  through 
the  first  several  chapters.  Had  he  continued  thus,  there 
would  have  been  nothing  new;  but  when  it  turned  out  to  be 
"a  comic  epic  poem  in  prose,"  some  explanation  by  the  au- 
thor was  necessary.  "From  Chapter  XL,  which  deals  with 
'several  new  matters  not  expected,*"  says  Professor  Ra-  y^ 
leigh,  "it  becomes  a  novel  of  adventure  of  a  type  new  to  l^-^^ 
English  hterature.  So  that  when  Fielding  came  to  write 
his  preface  he  found  that  he  too  had  to  defend  and  explain 
a  kind  of  writing  hitherto  unattempted."^ 

Horace  Walpole  declared  in  his  preface  to  the  second 
edition  of  "The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century  after  "Pamela,"  that  he  had  attempted  to  blend  two  \/ 
kinds  of  romance,  the  ancient  and  the  modern.  And  if  he/ 
was  not  more  in  sympathy  with  the  new  novel  than  with 
the  old  romance,  he  was  certainly  forced  by  pubhc  opinion 
to  feign  so.  In  a  letter  to  Elie  de  Beaumont,  March  18, 
1765,  he  wrote:  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  it  was  not  so  much 
my  intention  to  recall  the  exploded  marvels  of  the  ancient 
romance  as  to  blend  the  wonderful  of  old  stories  with  the  ^ 
natural  of  modern  novels."^  Miss  Burney  considered 
novel-reading  "incurable"  by  1778,  and  in  her  preface  to 
"Evehna"  she  frankly  prepared  for  disappointment  all 
those  reader  who  might  be  entertaining  the  gentle  expecta- 
tion of  finding  anything  in  her  novel  that  savored  of  the  old 
romance.  ' 

Literary  taste  had  been  formed  very  largely  by  Augus- 
tan canons  of  criticism,  with  which  the  first  English  novel- 
ists were  in  perfect  accord.  This  novel  kind  of  writing, 
therefore,  was  not  shockingly  new  to  readers,  but  it  was 


1.  Preface  to  "Joseph  Andrews." 

2.  "Ibid." 

3.  Walter  Raleigh,  "The  English  Novel,"  pp.  164-165 

4.  Cunningham,  "Letters  of  Horace  Walpole,"  IV,  p.  333. 


26  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

rather  a  soothing  surprise;  very  soon  they  accepted  it  as 
embodying  the  highest  reaches  of  EngHsh  thought  and 
emotion.  Aaron  Hill,  upon  reading  "Pamela"  for  the  first 
time,  though  he  asserts  he  did  not  know  its  authorship, 
expressed  in  a  letter  his  surprise  and  unbounded  satisfac- 

.  tion:     "Who  could  have  dreamed,"  he  wrote,  "he  should 

I  find,  under  the  modest  disguise  of  a  novel,  all  the  soul  of 
religion,  good  breeding,  discretion,  good  nature,  wit,  fancy, 

5    fine  thought,  and  morality  7"^ 

'  Grandma  Shirley  admirably  summed  up  the  opinion  of 

the  respectable  middle  class  of  readers  in  a  conversation 
with  several  yong  ladies  at  Shirley  Manor:  "The  reading  in 
fashion,  when  I  was  young,  was  romances.  You,  my  child- 
ren, have,  in  that  respect,  fallen  into  happier  days.  The 
present  age  is  greatly  obliged  to  the  authors  of  the  Specta- 
tors. But  till  I  became  acquainted  with  my  dear  Mrs.  Eg- 
gleton,  which  was  about  my  sixtieth  year,  I  was  over-run 
with  the  absurdities  of  that  unnatural  kind  of  writing."^ 
The  first  great  novelists  of  the  eighteenth  century,  there- 
fore, were  the  originators  and  sponsors  of  a  new  kind  of 
writing;  new  not  only  in  form,  but  in  content  as  well.  The 
popularity  of  "Pamela"  and  of  "Joseph  Andrews"  indicates 
that  the  audiences  were  pleased  with  this  new  type  of  liter- 
ature. "Richardson's  novel  ('Pamela'),"  says  Professor 
Cross,  "ran  its  course  down  through  all  classes  to  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  while  Fielding's  novel  (* Joseph  Andrews')  ran 
upward  through  a  less  numerous  class  to  the  gentry  and 
nobility."^  It  is  evident  that  all  classes  of  society  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest — ^from  the  billage  blacksmith  to  the 
gallant  gentleman,  and  from  waiting  maids  to  the  fine 
ladies  of  Ranelagh — eagerly  read  and  discussed  with  each 
other  the  contents  of  these  books. 

The  first  great  novelists  of  the  mid-eighteenth  century 
were  incessant  and  insistent  in  denouncing  the  old  romance 
as  dangerous  and  unworthy  of  perusal  by  the  reading  pub- 
lic. These  authors  had  introduced  something  new;  and, 
after  they  had  largely  succeeded  in  making  their  audiences 
t         agree  that  "happier  days"  had  come  along  with  the  new 

1.  Barbauld,  "Correspondence  of  Richardson,"  I,  pp.  54-55. 

2.  "Sir  Charles  Grandlson,"  VII,  Letter  xiv. 

3.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,**  I,  p.  355. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


27 


type,  they  freely  pointed  out  the  fundamental  differences 
between  the  new  and  the  old.  These  differences  led  to  the 
formulation  of  general  constructive  theories  which,  though 
crude  and  more  or  less  indefinite  then,  may  be  compre- 
hended now  under  four  broad  principles. 

I.  The  piece  should  profess  and  disclose  a  moral  pur- 
pose, as  against  a  purely  fictitious  narrative  designed  solely 
for  entertainment.  II.  The  characters,  the  conversations, 
the  situations,  and  the  incidents  should  have  their  |;)asis  in 
human  nature;  should  evolve  from  a  close  study  of  real 
life— of  contemporary  English  hfe— as  against  the  far-off 
unknown  people  of  distant  lands,  and  ancient  times. 
III.  Reason  and  common  sense  should  predominate  always, 
as  against  mystic  ideality,  the  highly  imaginative,  and  the 
purely  fanciful.  IV.  The  plot,  the  persons,  and  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  piece  should  come  well  within  the  bounds  of 
probability,  and  easily  within  the  range  of  credibility,  there- 
by dismissing  the  absurd  and  marvelous  of  ancient  ro- 
mance. 

Scott  called  Fielding  the  "Father  of  the  English  Novel." 
because  he  was  the  first  to  transform  loose  adventure  into  a 
new  art.  Whether  or  not  we  agree  with  Scott  without 
some  reservations,  makes  Httle  difference;  the  fact  is.  Field-  \ 
ing  was  certainly  the  first  to  grasp  the  principles  underlying 
the  new  prose  fiction  and  to  give  then  utterance  in  compre- 
hensive manner.  This  he  did  in  "Tom  Jones"  in  1749.  I 
have  quoted  them  at  length  because  they  are  significant  as 
theory  in  moulding  the  novel  later,  and  because  they  come 
.^^  from  an  artist  at  so  early  a  date: 

I^K  "As  we  are  now  entering  upon  a  book  in  which  the 

^H  cause  of  our  history  will  oblige  us  to  relate  some  mat- 

^H  ters  of  a  more  strange  and  surprising  kind  than  any 

^H  which  hitherto  occurred,  it  may  not  be  amiss,  in  the 

^H  prolegomenous  or  introductory  chapter,  to  say  some- 

^H  thing  of  that  species  of  writing  which  is  called  the 

^H  marvellous.     To  this  we  shall,  as  weU  for  the  sake  of 

^H  ourselves  as  for  others,  endeavor  to  set  some  certain 

^H  bounds,  and  indeed  nothing  can  be  more  necessary  as 

^B  critics  (by  this  word  here  .  .  .  we  mean  every  reader 

^H  in  the  world)  of  different  complexions  are  here  apt  to 

^Bi  run  into  very  different  extremes.  .  . 


28  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"First,  then,  I  think  it  may  very  reasonably  be  re- 
quired of  every  writer  that  he  keeps  within  the  bounds 
of  possibihty;  and  still  remembers  that  what  it  is  not 
possible  for  men  to  perform,  it  is  scarce  possible  for 
man  to  believe  he  did  perform " 

j  "The  only  supernatural  agents  which  can  in  any 

I  manner  be  allowed  to  us  moderns  are  ghosts;  but  of 
these  I  would  advise  an  author  to  be  extremely  spar- 
ing. These  are,  indeed,  like  arsenic,  and  other  dan- 
gerous drugs  in  physic,  to  be  used  with  the  utmost 
caution;  nor  would  I  advise  the  introduction  of  them 
at  all  in  the  works,  or  by  those  authors,  to  which,  or 
to  whom,  a  horse-laugh  in  the  reader  would  be  any 
great  prejudice  or  mortification.  .  .  ." 

"Man,  therefore,  is  the  highest  subject  (unless  on 
very  extraordinary  occasions  indeed)  which  presents 
itself  to  the  pen  of  our  historian  or  of  our  poet;  and,  in 
relating  his  actions,  great  care  is  to  be  taken  that  we  do 
not  exceed  the  capacity  of  the  agent  we  describe. 

"Nor  is  possibility  alone  sufficient  to  justify  us; 
we  must  keep  likewise  within  the  rules  of  probability. 
It  is,  I  think,  the  opinion  of  Aristotle;  or  if  not,  it  is  the 
opinion  of  some  wise  man,  whose  authority  will  be 
as  weighty  when  it  is  as  old,  'That  it  is  no  excuse  for 
a  poet  who  relates  what  is  incredible,  that  the  thing  re- 
lated is  really  matter  of  fact'.  .  .  . 

"Such  facts,  however,  as  they  occur  in  the  thread 
of  the  story,  nay,  indeed,  as  they  constitute  the  essen- 
tial parts  of  it,  the  historian  is  not  justfiable  in  record- 
ing as  they  really  happen,  but,  indeed,  would  be  un- 
pardonable should  he  omit  or  alter  them.  .  .  . 

"To  say  the  truth,  if  the  historian  will  confine  him- 
self to  what  really  happened,  and  utterly  reject  any 
circumstances,  which,  though  never  so  well  attested, 
he  must  be  well  assured  is  false,  he  will  sometimes  fall 
into  the  marvellous,  but  never  into  the  incredible.  He 
will  often  raise  the  wonder  and  surprise  of  his  reader, 
but    never    that    incredulous    hatred    mentioned    by 

^  Horace.  It  is  by  falling  into  fiction,  therefore,  that  we 
generally  offend  against  this  rule,  of  deserting  proba- 
bility, which  the  historian  seldom,  if  ever,  quits  till  he 

j  forsakes  his  character  and  commences  a  writer  of  ro- 
mance. In  this,  however,  those  historians  who  relate 
public  transactions,  have  the  advantage  of  us  who  con- 
fine ourselves  to  scenes  of  private  life.  .  .  . 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  29 

'But  we  who  deal  in  private  character,  who  search 
into  the  most  retired  recesses,  and  draw  forth  ex- 
amples of  virtue  and  vice  from  holes  and  corners  of 
the  world,  are  in  a  more  dangerous  situation.  As  we 
have  no  public  notoriety,  no  concurrent  testimony,  no 
record  to  support  and  corroborate  what  we  deliver,  it 
becomes  us  to  keep  within  the  limits  not  only  of  pos- 
sibility, but  of  probability  too;  and  this  more  especial- 
ly in  painting  what  is  greatly  good  and  amiable.  .  .  ." 

"In  the  last  place,  the  actions  should  be  such  as 
may  not  only  be  within  the  compass  of  human  agency, 
and  which  human  acrents  may  probably  be  supposed  to 
do;  but  they  should  be  likely  for  the  very  actors  and 
characters  themselves  to  have  performed;  for  what 
may  be  only  wonderful  and  surprising  in  one  man, 
may  become  improbable,  or  indeed  impossible,  when 
related  of  another. 

"This  last  recruisite  is  what  the  dramatic  critics  call 
conservation  of  character:  and  it  requires  a  very  extra- 
ordinary dearee  of  judr^ment,  and  a  most  exact  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature."*  ^^  ^  a,  ^ 

Fielding  did  possess  just  such  an  exact  knowledge  of 
human  nature.  "Fielding's  novels  are,  in  general,  thor- 
oughly his  own;  and  they  are  thoroughly  English,"  says  Mr. 
Hazlitt.  "What  they  are  most  remarkable  for,  is  neither 
sentiment,  nor  imagination,  nor  wit,  nor  even  humor, 
though  there  is  an  immense  deal  of  this  last  quality;  but 
profound  knowledge  of  human  nature,  at  least  English 
nature,  and  masterly  pictures  of  the  characters  of  men  as 
he  saw  them  existing."^ 

The  phenomenal  success  of  the  first  part  of  "Pamela," 
which  greatly  exceeded  the  author's  "most  sanguine  ex- 
pectations," made  Richardson  eager  to  offer  more  of  the 
same  stuff;  he  commended  the  second  part  to  his  readers 
in  these  words:  "The  Editor  hopes,  that  the  Letters  which 
compose  this  Part  will  be  found  equally  written  to  Nature, 
avoiding  all  romantic  flights,  improbable  surprises,  and  ir- 
rational machinery.  .  .  ."^ 

"He  (the  Editor)  always  thought  that  *sudden  conver- 


1.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  VUI,  Ch.  1. 

2.  William  Hazlitt,  "English  Comic  Writers."  Lecture  VI,  pp.  151-152. 

3.  "Pamela."    Preface  to  the  Second  Part. 


\ 


30  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

sions,'  such  especially,  as  were  left  to  the  candour  of  the 
reader  to  'suppose'  and  *make  out,'  had  neither  art,  nor 
nature,  nor  even  'probability'  in  them;  and  that  they  were, 
moreover,  of  very  'bad'  example."^ 

Fielding,  too,  was  opposed  to  sudden  conversions,  and 
for  the  same  reasons.  "Our  modern  authors  of  comedy," 
he  says,  "have  fallen  almost  universally  into  the  error  here 
hinted  at;  their  heroes  generally  are  notorious  rogues,  and 
their  heroines  abandoned  jades,  during  the  first  four  acts; 
but  in  the  fifth,  the  former  become  very  worthy  gentlemen, 
and  the  latter  women  of  virtue  and  discretion;  nor  is  the 
writer  often  so  kind  as  to  give  himself  the  least  trouble  to 
reconcile  or  account  for  the  monstrous  change  and  incon- 
gruity. There  is,  indeed,  no  other  reason  to  be  assigned 
for  it,  than  because  the  play  is  drawing  to  a  conclusion;  as 
if  it  was  no  less  natural  in  a  rogue  to  repent  in  the  last  act 
of  a  play  than  in  the  last  of  his  life.  .  .  ."^ 

Much  has  been  written  in  criticism  of  Richardson's 
prolixity,  which,  it  is  asserted,  is  due  largely  to  the  episto- 
lary method  of  telling  the  story.  Curiously  enough,  the 
author  anticipated  this  objection  to  his  books,  and  was 
ready  with  his  reply  when  the  objection  came.  It  is  not 
strange,  or  by  accident,  that  the  astute  author  justified  the 
excessive  length  almost  solely  on  the  ground  that  the  book 
was  according  to  reason — credible  and  probable.  On  this 
head  he  quotes  from  a  "Critique  on  the  History  of  Clarissa," 
"the  opinion  of  an  ingenius  and  candid  foreigner,  on  this 
manner  of  writing,  who,"  his  vanity  prompts  him  to  as- 
sert, "has  done  great  honor  in  it  to  the  'History  of  Claris- 
sa'": 

"  'Romances  in  general.  .  .  .  are  wholely  improbable;  be- 
cause they  suppose  the  History  to  be  written  afterth^  series 
of  events  is  closed  by  the  catastophe:  a  circum^jlce  which 
implies  a  strength  of  memory  beyond  all  e:^Bples  and 
probability  in  the  persons  concerned,  enabling  ^Rn,  at  the 
distance  of  several  years,  to  relate  all  the  particulars  of  a 
transient  conversation:  or  rather  it  implies  a  yet  more  im- 


1.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

2.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  Ch.  1. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  31 

probable  confidence  and  familiarity  between  all  these  per- 
sons and  the  author.'  "^  He  justified  himself  in  like  senti- 
ment when  those  who  had  been  anticipating  a  mere  novel  or 
romance  objected  to  the  length  of  the  piece:  "To  all  which 
we  may  add,  that  there  was  frequently  a  necessity  to  be  very 
circumstantial  and  minute,  in  order  to  preserve  and  main- 
tain that  air  of  probability,  which  is  necessary  to  be  main- 
tained in  a  story  designed  to  represent  real  lif  e."^ 

Thus  the  stage  was  set.  "In  order  to  preserve  and  main- 
tain that  air  of  probability,  which  is  necesary  to  be  main- 
tained"; that  is,  it  was  necessary  because  the  Age  of  Pope, 
with  all  it  implied,  made  it  so.  But  the  air  of  probability 
that  was  characteristic  of  the  new  fiction,  did  not  go  long 
unchallenged,  for  the  story  of  the  Middle  Ages,  composed 
of  love,  chivalry,  and  religion,  with  its  absurdities  and  im- 
probabilities, was  not  yet  dead;  it  was  only  moribund.  The 
hotly  contested  battle-royal  between  the  forces  of  the  new 
novel  and  those  of  the  old  romance  was  soon  on;  but  there 
were,  however,  veiled  suggestions  of  willingness  to  compro- 
mise the  differences,  beginning  with  Walpole's  "Castle  of 
Otranto"  in  1764.  The  contest  was  prolonged  through 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  in  "The  Old  English 
Baron,"  in  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  and  in  "Caleb  Wil- 
liams"; it  ended  in  a  drawn  battle  with  the  forces  of  the 
new  type  slightly  stronger  than  those  of  the  old  romance 
when  they  merged  into  nineteenth-century  romanticism.      / 

There  is  evidence  by  1760  of  a  determined  reaction 
against  the  new  novel  that  was  reproducing  photographic- 
ally accurate  pictures  of  the  moral  and  social  conditions  of 
the  times.  There  was  danger  that  the  English  novel  would  j 
continue^JijytJe^jnore  than_a[_mm^or__o^ 
To  obviate  this  dahgefTSterne  disregarded  the  traditions; 
and,  as  a  result  of  his  boldness  and  in  spite  of  the  petty 
criticism  of  his  times,  he  won  liberty  for  all  novelists  who 
would  follow. 

Mr.  Shandy  and  uncle  Toby  start  downstairs:  "Is  it  not 
a  shame,"  he  asks  tauntingly,  "to  make  two  chapters  of 


IS 


1.  Quoted  In  the  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

2.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 


32  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

/' 

/  what  passed  in  going  down  one  pair  of  stairs?  for  we  are 

/  got  no  farther  yet  than  the  first  landing,  and  there  are 

/    fifteen  more  steps  down  to  the  bottom;  and,  for  aujsht  I 

'     know  as  my  father  and  my  Uncle  Toby  are  in  a  talking 

humor,  there  may  be  as  many  chapters  as  steps.    Let  that 

be  as  it  will,  Sir,  I  can  no  more  help  it  than  my  destiny. — 

1     A  sudden  impulse  comes  across  me: — drop  the  curtain 

\    Shandy: — I  drop  it. — Strike  a  line  here  across  the  paper, 

\    Tristram: — I  strike  it, — and  hey  for  a  new  chapter. 

"The  duce  of  any  other  rule  have  I  to  govern  myself  in 
this  affair; — and  if  I  had  one, — as  I  do  all  thinas  out  of  all 
rule, — I  would  twist  and  tear  it  to  pieces,  and  throw  it  into 
the  fire  when  I  had  done. — Am  I  worm  ?  I  am,  and  the  cause 
demands  it: — a  pretty  story!  is  a  man  to  follow  rules, — or 
rules  to  follow  him?"i 

"This  chapter,  therefore,  I  'name'  the  chapter  of 
Things, — and  my  next  chapter  to  it,  that  is,  the  first  chapter 
of  my  next  volume,  if  I  live,  shall  be  my  chapter  upon 
Whiskers,  in  order  to  keep  up  some  kind  of  connection  in 
my  works."2 

Horace  Walpole,  who  tells  us  frankly  that  he  was  fond 
of  faction  as  an  amusement  and  a  lover  of  mischief,  eagerly 
seized  the  opportunity  to  neglect  rules.  But  even  so,  he 
did  not  dare  exceed  the  bounds  of  probability  without  an 
apology  and  a  feeble  attempt  to  explain  his  innovation. 

"It  was  an  attempt  to  blend  the  two  kinds  of  Ro- 
mance, the  ancient  ard  the  modem,"  he  says  in  his 
preface  to  the  second  edition.  "In  the  former,  all  was 
imagination  and  imorobability:  in  the  latter,  nature  is 
always  intended  to  be,  and  sometimes  has  been,  copied 
I  with  success.  Invention  has  not  been  wanting;  but 
the  iffreat  resources  of  fancy  have  been  dammed  un,  by 
a  strict  adherence  to  common  life.  But  if  in  the  latter 
species  Nature  has  cramped  imai^ination,  she  did  but 
take  her  revenge,  having  been  totally  excluded  from 
old  Romances.  The  actions,  sentiments,  conversa- 
tions, of  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  ancient  days,  were 
as  unnatural  as  the  machines  employed  to  put  them  in 
motion. 


1.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  TV,  Ch.  x. 

2.  "Ibid./*  IV,  Ch.  xxxii. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  38 

"The  author  of  the  following  pages  thought  it  pos- 
sible to  reconcile  the  two  kinds.  Desirous  of  leaving 
the  powers  of  fancy  at  liberty  to  expatiate  through  the 
boundless  realm  of  invention,  and  thence  of  creating 
more  interesting  situations,  he  wished  to  conduct  the 
moral  agents  in  the  drama  according  to  the  rules  of 
probability;  in  short,  to  make  them  think,  speak,  and 
act,  as  it  might  be  supposed  mere  men  and  women 
would  do  in  extraordinary  positions."^ 

Miss  Clara  Reeve,  however,  was  not  satisfied  with  Wal- 
pole's  romance.  She  agreed  with  his  theory,  but  thought 
that  in  practice  he  had  greatly  exceeded  the  bounds  of  prob- 
ability; that  he  had  not  succeeded  in  writing  the  book  he 
had  promised.  Accordingly  she  set  out  to  correct  him  by 
writing  what  is  known  as  "The  Old  English  Baron." 

"  The  Castle  of  Otranto,' "  she  says  in  her  preface,  "is 
an  attempt  to  unite  the  various  merits  and  graces  of  the 
ancient  Romance  and  the  modem  Novel.  To  attain  this 
end,  there  is  required  a  sufficient  degree  of  the  marvelous 
to  excite  attention;  enough  of  the  manners  of  real  life  to 
give  an  air  of  probability  to  the  work;  and  enough  of  the 
pathetic  to  engage  the  heart  in  its  behalf."     She  continues: 

"The  book  we  have  just  mentioned  is  excellent  in 
the  last  two  points,  but  has  a  redundancy  in  the  first. 
The  opening  excites  the  attention  very  strongly;  the 
conduct  of  the  story  is  artful  and  judicious;  the  char- 
acters are  admirably  drawn  and  supported;  the  diction 
polished  and  elegant;  yet  with  all  these  brilliant  advan- 
tages, it  palls  upon  the  mind  (though  it  does  not  upon 
the  ear) ;  and  the  reason  is  obvious,  the  machinery  is 
so  violent  that  it  destroys  the  effect  it  is  intended  to 
excite.  Had  the  story  been  kept  within  the  utmost 
'verge'  of  probability,  the  effect  had  been  preserved, 
without  losing  the  least  circumstance  that  excites  or 
detains  the  attention. 

"For  instance;  we  can  conceive,  and  allow  of,  the 
appearance  of  a  ghost;  we  can  even  dispense  with  an 
enchanted  sword  and  helmet;  but  then  they  must  be 
kept  within  certain  limits  of  credibility.  A  sword  so 
large  as  to  require  a  hundred  men  to  lift  it;  a  helmet 
that  by  its  own  weight  forces  a  passage  through  a 
courtyard,  into  an  arched  vault  big  enough  for  a  man 


1.  "Preface  to  *The  Castle  of  Otranto." 


34  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

to  go  through;  a  picture  that  walks  out  of  its  frame; 
a  skeleton  ghost  in  a  hermits  cowl: — when  your  ex- 
pectation is  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch,  these  cir- 
cumstances take  it  down  with  a  witness,  destroy  the 
work  of  imagination,  and  instead  of  attention  excite 
laughter. ...  -  '^' 

"In  the  course  of  my  observations  upon  this  singu- 
lar book,  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  possible  to  com- 
pose a  work  upon  the  same  plan,  wherein  these  de- 
fects might  be  avoided;  and  the  'keeping,'  as  in 
'painting,'  might  be  preserved."^ 

This  literary  offspring  of  "The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  then, 
was  written  upon  the  same  plan,  with  a  design  to  unite  the 
most  attractive  and  interesting  circumstances  of  the  ancient 
Romance  and  the  modern  Novel.  To  attain  this  end,  she  re- 
quired, first,  a  sufficient  degree  of  the  marvelous  to  excite 
attention;  and  second,  enough  of  the  manners  of  real  life 
to  give  an  air  of  probability  to  the  work.  Walpole's  ro- 
mance palled  upon  her  mind  because  the  machinery  was 
too  violent — so  violent  as  to  destroy  the  very  effects  it  was 
intended  to  excite.  She  set  out,  therefore,  to  keep  her  story 
within  the  utmost  'verge'  of  probability.  Witness  the 
curious  situation  she  creates: 

At  nine  o'clock  Old  Joseph  gave  Edmund  a  lamp  and 
sword  and  conducted  him  to  the  haunted  chamber  for  the 
night.  Here  he  found  the  furniture  decayed  and  the  rats 
occupying  the  bed  that  the  moths  had  all  but  devoured. 
Such  conditions  were  not  conductive  to  sleep.  Espying  two 
doors  at  the  further  side  of  the  room,  he  resolved  to  ex- 
amine them.  The  first  of  these  opened  with  ease.  He  en- 
tered, satisfied  his  curiosity,  and  returned  to  the  chamber 
to  see  where  the  other  door  led  to.  To  his  astonishment 
the  key  was  rusted  into  the  lock,  and  resisted  his  attempts. 
He  set  the  lamp  on  the  ground  and  exerted  all  his  strength. 
The  sudden  yielding  of  the  door  caused  a  draught  which 
instantly  blew  out  the  lamp  and  left  him  in  utter  darkness. 

Thus  far  all  goes  well  with  Edmund;  and  the  reader  is 
pleased  because  his  attention  is  arrested  and  his  interest  and 
curiosity  are  aroused.     Indeed  he  is  impatient  to  learn  the 


1.  Preface  to  "The  Old  English  Baron. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  35 

outcome  of  this  matter,  and  therefore  willingly  follows  the 
author: 

"At  this  same  moment  (when  the  light  went  out) 
he  (Edmund)  heard  a  hollow  rustling  noise,  like  that 
of  a  person  coming  through  a  pasage.  Till  this  mo- 
ment not  one  idea  of  fear  had  approached  the  mind  of 
Edmund;  but  just  then  all  the  concurrent  circum- 
stances of  his  situation  struck  upon  his  heart,  and  gave 
him  a  new  and  disagreeable  sensation.  He  paused 
awhile;  and  recollecting  himself,  cried  out  aloud, 
*What  should  I  fear?  I  have  not  wilfully  offended 
God  or  man;  why,  then  should  I  doubt  protection? 
But  I  have  not  yet  implored  the  Divine  assistance;  how 
then  can  I  expect  it  T  Upon  this  he  kneeled  down  and 
prayed  earnestly,  resigning  himself  wholly  to  the  will 
of  Heaven;  while  he  was  yet  speaking  his  courage  re- 
turned, and  he  resumed  his  usual  confidence.  Again 
he  approached  the  door  from  whence  the  noise  pro- 
ceeded; he  thought  he  saw  a  glimmering  light  upon  the 
staircase  before  him.  'If,'  said  he,  *this  apartment  is 
haunted,  I  will  use  my  endeavors  to  discover  the  cause 
of  it;  and  if  the  spirit  appears  visibly,  I  will  speak  to  it.' 

"He  was  preparing  to  descend  the  staircase,  when 
he  heard  several  knocks  at  the  door  by  which  he  first 
entered  the  room;  and  stepping  backward,  the  door 
was  clapped  to  with  great  violence.  Again  fear  at- 
tacked him;  but  he  resisted  it,  and  boldly  cried  out, 
*Who  is  there?' 

"A  voice  at  the  outer  door  answered,  'It's  I;  Joseph, 
your  friend.' 

"'What  do  you  want?' 

"  *I  have  brought  you  some  wood  to  make  a  fire,* 
said  Joseph."! 

If  Walpole's  absurd  and  incredible  situations  excite 
laughter,  as  Miss  Reeve  maintains,  then,  in  justice  to  Wal- 
pole,  we  should  say  of  Miss  Reeve's  professed  literary  off- 
spring, that  the  farcial  bathos  of  the  situations  she  created 
suppresses  our  smiles. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe's  method,  though  far  more  cleverly  done, 
is  similar  to  Miss  Reeve's.  Her  work  seems  to  abound  in 
unusual  and  mysterious  agencies  which  excite  fear  and 
great  agony  in  her  lonely,  unprotected  females;   but  in 


1.  "The  Old  English  Baron,"  pp.  63-64. 


36  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

reality  her  means  and  agents  are  natural  and  human.  She 
describes  the  fears  and  nervous  hallucinations  of  her  char- 
acters in  a  ghostly  manner,  and  then  explains  them  by 
natural  causes.  "The  plots  of  her  stories,'*  says  Professor 
Raleigh,  "have  often  been  censured  for  their  timidity. 
With  an  unprecedented  control  over  the  secrets  of  terror,  a 
power  of  awakening  by  a  touch  all  the  vague  associations 
and  suggestions  of  superstitious  awe,  she  yet  shrinks  from 
following  Walpole,  and  never  plunges  into  the  frankly 
supernatural.  Further,  and  here  perhaps  lies  her  chief 
mistake,  she  does  not  follow  the  supernatural  even  as  a 
possible  refuge.  The  explanations  whereby  her  multiplied 
mysteries  are  ultimately  dissipated,  run  on  such  severely 
natural  lines  as  to  recall  the  simplicity  of  Snug  the  joiner, 
and  the  reader  is  almost  ashamed  of  his  terrors  when  he  is 
confronted  with  the  dull  mechanic  who  has  simulated  a  lion 
so  marvellously."^ 

I  have  quoted  at  length  from  the  prefaces  and  works  of 
the  better  known  reactionaries  to  the  matter-of-fact  novel 
of  PUchardson,  Fielding,  Smollett,  and  Sterne  to  show  that, 
even  in  the  writings  of  the  so-called  Gothicists,  the  realistic 
tendency  in  the  eighteenth-century   novels    never   ceased. 

The  aae  of  Pope  and  Johnson  was  too  conservative  to 
permit  radical  departures  from  the  accepted  canons.  These 
canons  were  well  intrenched  in  the  life  and  thought  of  the 
times,  and  they  were  carefully  garded  by  the  regulars.  The 
limited  grasp  of  reactionary  prose  fiction  could  not  sudden- 
ly and  completely  disrupt  the  tradition. 

"The  historians  had  made  the  baseless  romance  of  the 
Middle  Ages  henceforth  impossible,  because  incredible;  its 
revival  in  Walpole's  *Castle  of  Otranto,'  in  Beckford's 
*Vathek,'  in  Mrs.  RadclifFe's  'Mysteries  of  Udolpho,'  only 
make  evident  that  the  day  of  verity  had  sealed  its  doom."^ 

When  Johnson  said  that  Richardson  had  "enlarged  the 
knowledge  of  human  nature,"  he  was  uttering  a  truth  ap- 
plicable in  varying  degrees  to  every  eighteenth-century 
novelist.    Fielding  boldly  asserted  in  his  first  chapter  of 


1.  Walter  Raleigh,  "The  English  Novel,"  p.  228. 

2.  F.  H.  Stoddard.  **Evolutlon  of  the  English  No 


Novel/*  pp.  94-95. 


m  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  87 

"Tom  Jones"  that  the  provision  which  he  made  here  was  no_ 
other  than  human  nature.^  It  is  highly  important  to  note, 
too,  that  to  him,  as  to  most  novehsts  of  his  day  and  age, 
"  *human  nature'  did  not  mean  court  nature  with  its  con- 
ventions," as  Professor  Metcalf  points  out,  "but  rather  the 
free  man  nearer  to  nature  in  the  country  than  in  the  city."^ 

I  Fielding  states  very  frankly  why  he  prefers  to  choose  his  yC 
characters  from  the  common  walks  of  life:  "What  Mr.  Pope 
says  of  women  is  very  applicable  to  most  in  this  (upper) 
station,  who  are,  indeed,  so  entirely  made  up  of  form  and  af- 
fectation, that  they  have  no  character  at  all,  at  least  none 
which  appears.  I  will  venture  to  say  the  highest  life  is 
much  the  dullest,  and  affords  very  little  humor  or  entertain- 
ment. The  various  callings  in  lower  spheres  produce  the 
great  variety  of  humorous  characters;  whereas,  except 
among  the  few  who  are  engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  ambition, 
and  the  fewer  stitl  who  have  a  relish  for  pleasure,  all  is 
vanity  and  servile  imitation.  Dressing  and  cards,  eating 
and  drinking,  bowing  and  courtesying,  make  up  the  busi- 
ness of  their  lives."^ 

Moreover,  the  "free  man"  here  spoken  of  is  an  English- 
man— ^a  real  flesh-and-blood  person  who  lived  and  moved, 
loved  and  hated  in  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
For  this  reason  Leigh  Hunt,  in  his  "Novel  Party,"  found 
Abraham  Adams  "better  than  all  the  characters  in  all  the 
histories  of  the  world,  orthordox  or  not  orthordox  .  .  .  What 
a  sound  heart,"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  a  fist  to  stand  by  it  !"* 
"Indeed,  as  a  novel  is  substantially  the  embodiment  of  the 
remarks  made  by  the  ablest  observers  upon  their  contem- 
poraries," says  Leslie  Stephen,  "we  may  in  some  sense  ad- 
mit Fielding's  claim  to  be  a  writer  of  history  more  faithful 

'than  the  elaborate  fictions  generally  known  under   that 
name."5 

"And  here  I  solemnly  protest  I  have  no  intention  to 
asperse  or  vilify  anyone,"  says  Fielding;  "though  every 
thing  is  copied  from  the  book  of  nature,  and  scarce  a 


1.  "Tom  Jones,"  Blc.  I,  Ch.  1. 

2.  J.  C.  Metcalf,  'Henry  Fielding,  Critic'    "Sewanee  Review,"  XIX,  p.  141. 

3.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XIV,  Ch.  i. 

4.  Leigh  Hunt,  "Men,  Women  and  Books,"  pp.  63-64. 

5.  Leslie  Stephen,  "History  of  English  Thought  lu  the  Eighteenth  Century," 
U,  p.  379. 


38  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

character  or  action  produced  which  I  have  not  taken 
from  my  own  observations  and  experience '* 

"I  declare  here,  once  and  for  all,  I  describe  not 
men,  but  manners;  not  an  individual,  but  a  species. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  answered,  are  not  the  characters  then 
taken  from  Life?  To  which  I  answer  in  the  affirma- 
tive; nay  I  believe  I  might  aver  that  I  have  writ  little 
more  than  I  have  seen."^ 

"These  are  pictures  which  must  be,  I  believe, 
known:  I  declare  they  are  taken  from  the  life,  and  not 
intended  to  exceed  it."^ 

Sometimes  Fielding  says,  unequivocally,  in  the  midst  of 
his  story,  that  the  persons  either  are  known  to  him,  or  are 
intended  as  patterns  for  those  whom  he  knows.  He  tells 
of  Lady  Bellaston,  who,  after  pushing  in  her  hoop  sidewise 
before  her,  entered  the  room,  "having  first  made  a  very 
low  courtesy  to  Mrs.  Fitzpatrick  and  as  low  a  one  to  Mr. 
Jones."  "We  mention  these  minute  matters,"  he  says,  "for 
the  sake  of  some  country  ladies  of  our  acquaintance,  who 
think  it  contrary  to  the  rules  of  modesty  to  bend  their 
knees  to  a  man."^ 

"Concerning  Sophia  Western,"  says  Professor  Cross, 
"Fielding  left  no  doubt.  This  charming  girl  he  meant  as  a 
portrait  of  Charlotte  Cradock  as  she  was  when  he  first  saw 
her  in  the  freshness  of  youth  and  beauty  at  Salisbury — 
where  he  danced  with  her,  addressed  verses  to  her,  and  in 
the  end  fell  upon  his  knees.  Twice  in  Tom  Jones'  he  made 
the  identification  complete.  Sophia,  he  declared  on  her  en- 
trance into  the  novel,^  was  a  copy  from  nature.  .  .  And 
when  the  portrait  was  nearly  finished,  he  told  the  reader 
that  all  the  worth  he  had  ascribed  to  Sophia  *once  existed  in 
my  Charlotte.'  "s 

"The  total  number  of  characters  in  the  novel  (Tom 
Jones') ,  which,  counting  those  merely  mentioned  as  well  as 
those  that  actually  appear,  falls  little  short  of  two  hundred. 
All  that  swarming  host,  I  believe,  came  directly  out  of 
Fielding's  memories.  .  .  .    This  conclusion  receives  support 


1.  Preface  to  "Joseph  Andrews.** 

2.  "Joseph  Andrews,"  Bk.  IH,  Ch.  i. 

3.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XHI,  Ch.  iv. 

4.  "Ibid.,"  Bk.  IV,  Ch.  li. 

6.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fitldlug/'  U,  p.  17§. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


39 


from  the  remark  which  Fielding  made  to  Mrs.  Hussey  .  .  . 
to  whom  he  is  reported  to  have  said  that  he  intended  to  in- 
troduce into  *Tom  Jones'  *the  characters  of  all  his 
friends.'  "i 

Fielding  put  his  heart-felt  invocation,  which  he  ad- 
dressed to  Experience,  in  the  thirteenth  book  of  "Tom 
Jones."  It  dispels  any  lingering  doubt  there  may  be  as  to 
who  his  characters  are,  and  where  he  found  them: 

"Lastly,  come  Experience,  long  conversant  with  the 
wise,  the  good,  the  learned,  and  the  polite.  Nor  with 
them  only,  but  with  every  kind  of  character  from  the 
minister  at  his  levee  to  the  bailiff  in  his  spunging- 
house;  from  the  duchess  at  her  drum  to  the  landlady 
behind  her  bar.  From  these  only  can  the  manners  of 
mankind  be  known;  to  which  the  recluse  pedant,  how- 
ever great  his  parts  or  extensive  his  learning  may  be, 
hath  ever  been  a  stranger. "^ 

In  discoursing  on  the  qualifications  of  an  author  who  as- 
pires to  write  such  a  history  as  is  attempted  in  "Tom 
Jones,"  Fielding  says: 

"There  is  another  sort  of  knowledge  beyond  the 
power  of  learning  to  bestow,  and  this  is  to  be  had  by 
conversation.  So  necessary  is  this  to  the  understand- 
ing the  character  of  men,  that  none  are  more  ignorant 
of  them  than  those  learned  pedants  whose  lives  have 
been  entirely  consumed  in  colleges  and  among  books; 
for  however  exquisitely  human  nature  may  have  been 
described  by  the  writers,  the  true  practical  system  can 
be  learnt  only  in  the  world."  ...  Of  those  taken  from 
books,  he  declares  such  characters  to  be  "only  the  faint 
copy  of  a  copy,  and  can  have  neither  the  justness  nor 
the  spirit  of  the  original." 

He  continues:  "Now  this  conversation  in  our  his- 
torian must  be  universal,  that  is,  with  all  ranks  and 
degrees  of  men;  foi*  the  knowledge  of  what  is  called 
high  life  will  not  instruct  him  in  low;  nor,  *e  con- 
verso,'  will  his  being  acquainted  with  the  inferior  part 
of  mankind  teach  him  the  manner  of  the  superior. 
And  though  it  may  be  thought  that  the  knowledge  of 
either  may  sufficiently  enable  him  to  describe  at  least 


1.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  H,  p.  170, 

2,  "Torn  Jones,"  Bk.  XIII.  Ch.  1. 


40  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

that  in  which  he  has  been  conversant,  yet  he  will  even 
here  fall  greatly  short  of  perfection;  for  the  follies  of 
either  rank  do  in  reality  illustrate  each  other.  For  in- 
stance, the  affectation  of  high  life  appears  more  glar- 
ing and  ridiculous  from  the  simplicity  of  the  low;  and 
again,  the  rudeness  and  barbarity  of  this  latter  strikes 
with  much  stronger  ideas  of  absurdity,  when  contrast- 
ed with,  and  opposed  to,  the  politeness  which  controls 
the  former.  Besides,  to  say  the  truth,  the  manners  of 
our  historian  will  be  improved  by  both  these  conver- 
sations; for  in  one  he  will  easily  find  examples  of 
plainness,  honesty,  and  sincerity;  in  the  other  of  refine- 
ment, elegance,  and  a  liberality  of  spirit;  which  last 
quality  I  myself  have  scarce  ever  seen  in  men  of  low 
birth  and  education."^ 

Later  he  declares:  "In  short,  imitation  here  will  not 

do  the  business.     The  picture  must  be  after  Nature 

%        herself.    A  true  knowledge  of  the  world  is  gained  only 

j        by  conversation,  and  the  manners  of  every  rank  must 

'        be  seen  in  order  to  be  known."^ 

Sterne  seems  to  have  held  the  same  opinion:  "Writ- 
I        ing,  when  properly  managed  (as  you  may  be  sure  I 
]        think  mine  is),  is  but  a  different  name  for  conversa- 
tion."3 

"  To  have  invented  that  character  (Amelia) ,'  Thackeray 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Brookfield,  *is  not  only  a  triumph  of  art,  but  it 
is  a  good  action.  They  say  that  it  was  in  his  own  home 
that  Fielding  knew  and  loved  her:  and  from  his  own  wife 
that  he  drew  the  most  charming  character  in  English  Fic- 
tion! why  fiction?  why  not  history?  I  know  Amelia  just 
as  well  as  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu.'  And  so  we  have 
Thackery  exclaiming  in  his  summary:  *What  a  wonder- 
ful art!  what  an  admirable  gift  of  nature  was  it  by  which 
the  author  of  these  tales  was  endowed,  and  which  enabled 
him  to  fix  our  interest,  to  awaken  our  sympathy,  to  seize 
upon  our  credulity,  so  that  we  believe  in  his  people — specu- 
late gravely  upon  their  faults  or  their  excellences.'  "* 

Fielding,  as  well  as  other  novelists  of  the  time,  suc- 
ceeded in  the  eighteenth  century  in  getting  his  readers  to 
deliberate  upon  the  merits  and  demerits  of  the  characters. 


1.  "Torn  Jones,"  Bk.  IX.  Ch.  1. 
a.  "Ibid.,"  Bk.  XIV,  Ch.  I. 

3.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  II,  Ch.  xi. 

4.  Quoted  in  W.  L.  Crosses  "History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  III,  p.  215. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  41 

Lady  Luxborough  wrote  to  the  poet  Shenstone  from  Bar- 
rells,  March  23,  1749:  "In  the  adventures  that  happen,  I 
think  he  (Fielding)  produces  personages  but  too  like  those 
one  meets  with  in  the  world;  and  even  among  those  people 
to  whom  he  gives  good  characters,  he  shows  them  in  a  con- 
cave glass  which  discovers  blemishes  that  would  not  have 
appeared  to  the  common  eye.''^  "But  outsiders,  with  here 
and  there  an  exception,  did  not  quite  understand  Fielding's 
drift,"  says  Professor  Cross,  for  they  "found  men  and 
women  such  as  they  had  seen  and  known  in  real  life;  and 
they  were  nonplussed  by  Fielding's  frank  realism."^ 

Smollett  defined  the  novel  as  "a  large  diffused  picture, 
comprehending  the  characters  of  life."^  And  in  his  preface 
to  "Roderick  Random"  he  declared,  "I  have  not  deviated 
from  nature  in  the  facts,  which  are  all  true  in  the  main." 

Sterne  discovered  that  "Human-nature  is  the  same  in  all 
professions";*  and  later,  when  reflecting  upon  Corporal 
Trim,  said:  "Tread  lightly  on  his  ashes,  ye  men  of  genius, — 
for  he  was  your  kinsman." 

"Fielding,  Smollett,  and  Sterne,"  says  Professor  Cross, 
"all  had  the  reputation  in  their  time  of  taking  their  leading 
characters  from  actual  experience."^ 

Horace  Walpole,  the  professed  reactionary  toward 
what  he  considered  the  tendency  to  dam  up  the  sources  of 
fancy  because  of  a  too  strict  adherence  to  common  life,  did 
not  care  to  risk  the  "horse-laugh"  of  his  readers;  and  so  an 
explanation  in  the  form  of  an  apology  was  deemed  the  part 
of  wisdom:  "With  regard  to  the  deportment  of  the  domes- 
tics, ...  I  will  beg  leave  to  add  a  few  words.  The  simplicity 
of  their  behaviour,  almost  tending  to  excite  smiles,  which 
at  first  seems  not  consonant  to  the  serious  cast  of  the  work, 
appeared  to  me  not  only  not  improper,  but  was  marked  de- 
signedly in  that  manner.    My  rule  was  nature."^ 

Richardson  defended  his  delineation  of  Lovelace  in  a  let- 
ter to  Aaron  Hill  January  26, 1747:  "I  must  own  that  I  am  a 


1.  Quoted  in  W.  L.  Cross's  "History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  U,  pp.  127-128. 

2.  "Ibid.,"  pp.  126-127. 

3.  Dedication  of  "Ferdinand  Court  Fathom." 

4.  "Tristram  Sliandy,"  H,  Ch.  xviii. 

5.  W.  L.  Cross,  "Development  of  the  English  Novel,"  p.  72. 

6.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto."    Preface  to  the  Second  Edition. 


42  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

good  deal  warped  by  the  Character  of  a  Gentleman  I  had  in 
my  eye,  when  I  drew  both  him,  and  Mr.  B.  in  "Pamela.**^ 
He  declared  in  his  preface  to  "Pamela,"  that  the  story  had 
its  foundation  both  in  truth  and  in  nature.  As  to  the  truth, 
genuineness,  and  reality  of  the  foundation  of  this  first 
English  novel,  we  have  the  author's  own  statement  in  a  let- 
ter to  Aaron  Hill. 

Thus,  from  Richardson  onward,  the  new  novel  owed  its 
origin  and  subsequent  development  largely  to  the  reaction 
of  English  thought  against  all  that  was  manifestly  incredi- 
ble. Practically  all  that  was  foreign  and  extraneous  was 
anathematized  and  tabooed.  The  new  novel  was  leading 
back  to  a  genuine  respect  for  truth  in  art;  and  it  was  rapidly 
discovering  its  fit  form  and  subject-matter  in  the  reasonable 
and  the  matter-of-fact  incidents  of  everyday,  contemporary 
English  life.  The  characters  that  appeared  were  generally 
men  and  women  whom  the  novelist  had  known. 

"There  came  a  day  when  the  tale  of  all  these  external, 
far-off,  glories  of  unrealities  passed  away,  and  in  its  place 
came  the  simple  story  of  a  humble  life,  in  scenes  real  at 
hand;  the  story  of  the  emotion  of  a  simple,  homely,  strug- 
gUng  soul.  ...  In  the  middle  years  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury there  came  such  a  day.  When  that  day  came,  it  was 
the  birthday  of  the  English  noveL"^ 


1.  Barbauld,  "Correspondence  of  Richardson." 

2.  F.  H.  Stoddard,  "Evolution  of  the  English  Novel,"  pp.  41-42. 


^ 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  AVOWED  PURPOSES  OF  THE  NOVEL 


The  rise  of  the  novel  in  1740  marks  the  end  of  prose  fic- 
tion designed  solely  for  amusement  and  entertainment. 
The  critical  nature  of  the  new  type  is  nearly  always  appar- 
ent from  this  date,  and  usually  there  is  a  well  defined  pur- 
pose clearly  expressed  in  the  author's  preface.  "Never  was 
there  a  body  of  writers,"  says  Professor  Raleigh,  referring 
to  the  leading  novelists,  "of  whom  it  might  more  truly  be 
said  that  their  work  is  a  criticism  of  life."  And  he  suggests 
the  purpose  and  scope  of  this  criticism  when  he  declares 
that  the  theme  of  the  eighteenth-century  novel  is  the  history 
of  persons,  regarded  as  moral  beings,  and  treated  in  rela- 
tion to  each  other  and  to  society.^  The  second  and  third 
quarters  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  years  particularly 
watchful  and  critical  in  all  matters  affecting  the  religious, 
moral,  social,  and  political  conditions  of  the  times. 

The  influence  of  the  great  reHgious  revival  of  Wesley 
and  Whitefield  had  reached  the  masses  in  whose  interest 
mainly  it  was  carried  on,  and  it  had  already  accomplished 
much  by  1740.  In  the  spiritual  renaissance  of  the  first  half 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  were  laid  the  foundation-stones 
of  liberalism  and  reform.  It  was  inevitable  that  fiction 
should  align  itself  with  the  new  forces  and  point  out  the 
follies  of  everyday  life. 

The  main  purpose  of  the  old  romance  was  entertain- 
ment and  amusement;  but  the  pendulum  swung  to  the  op- 
posite extreme  when  Richardson's  first  novel  was  given  to 
the  public.  After  this  event,  all  of  the  great  eighteenth- 
century  novelists,  under  the  disguise  of  amusement,  boldly 
and  somewhat  ostentatiously  announce  in  their  preface  that 
their  object  is  "to  promote  the  cause  of  religion  and  vir- 
tue."   The  common  practice  was  to  select  men  and  women 


1.  Walter  Raleigh,  "The  English  Novel,"  p.  211. 


44  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

from  real  life  "for  example  sake";^  and  thus,  combined 
with  the  power  of  precept,  they  instruct  the  reader  while 
showing  vice  and  virtue  in  their  true  light. 

In  1756,  abridged  editions  of  "Pamela,"  "Clarissa  Har- 
lowe,"  and  "Sir  Charles  Grandison"  were  prepared  for  the 
public  under  the  caption,  "The  Paths  of  Virtue  delineated; 
or,  the  History  in  Miniature  of  the  Celebrated  Pamela, 
Clarissa  Harlowe,  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  familiarized 
and  adapted  to  the  Capacities  of  Youth."  A  review  of  this 
work  appears  in  the  "Critical  Review"  for  the  month  of 
May,  1756,  in  which  is  reflected  the  response  by  the  read- 
ing public  to  the  author's  gift  as  a  preacher:  "The  char- 
acter of  the  (original)  books,  with  an  abridgement  of  which 
we  are  here  presented,  is  already  so  well  known,  that  it 
would  be  needless  for  us  to  say  anything  upon  that  head, 
nor  is  it  properly  our  province.  The  author  must  certainly 
have  secured  them  the  esteem  of  every  friend  to  virtue  and 
religion;  and  we  are  glad  to  find  them  now  reduced  to  such 
a  size  as  may  fit  them  for  every  hand;  for  certainly  few 
books  of  entertainment  are  so  well  adapted  to  the  instruc- 
tion of  youth."2 

When  the  future  author  of  "Pamela"  and  "Clarissa" 
was  telling  stories  to  his  school-fellows,  "some  of  which," 
he  says,  "I  told  them  from  my  reading,  as  true,  .  .  .  and  all 
of  my  stories  carried  with  them,  I  am  bold  to  say,  an  use- 
ful moral,"^  he  was  being  unconsciously  prepared  for  the 
crowning  glory  of  his  life,  which  was  to  come  many  years 
later.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  by  1740  the  cause  of  re- 
ligion and  virtue  was  very  close  to  the  heart  of  the  London 
printer.  To  his  friend  Aaron  Hill's  letter,  inquiring  as  to 
the  origin  of  "Pamela,"  he  repHed:  "I  thought  the  story, 
if  written  in  an  easy  and  natural  manner,  suitable  to  the 
simpKcity  of  it,  might  possibly  introduce  a  new  species  of 
writing,  that  might  possibly  turn  people  into  a  course  of 
reading  different  from  the  pomp  and  parade  of  romance 
writing,  and  dismissing  the  improbable  and  marvellous. 


1.  Miss  Howe  to  Clarissa:     "Every  eye,  in  short,  is  upon  you  with  the 
jpectation  of  an  example."— "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  I,  Letter  i. 

2.  *^Critical  Review,"  May,  1756,  p.  315. 

3.  Barbauld,  "Correspondence  of  Richardson,"  I,  pp.  xxxvl-xxxvii. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 

with  which  novels  generally  abound,  might  tend  to  promote 
the  cause  of  religion  and  virtue."^ 

Richardson  tells  us  that  several  admirers  submitted  pre- 
faces designed  for  publication  with  "Pamela,"  but  that  he 
rejected  them  all  because  he  preferred  to  use  his  own 
words.  He  thus  explains  and  defends  the  purpose  of  the 
first  English  novel: 

"If  to  Divert  and  Entertain,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
Instruct  and  Improve  the  Minds  of  the  Youth  of  both 
Sexes: 

"If  to  inculcate  Religion  and  Morality  in  so  easy 
and  agreeable  a  manner,  as  shall  render  them  equally 
deliahtful  and  profitable: 

"If  to  set  forth  in  most  exemplary  Lights,  the  Pa- 
rental, the  Filial,  and  the  Social  Duties: 

"If  to  paint  Vice  in  its  proper  Colours,  to  make  it 
deservedly  Odious;  and  to  set  Virtue  in  its  own  ami- 
able Light,  to  make  it  look  Lovely:" 

Five  more  "If's"  equally  significant  to  the  author 
follow,  and  he  concludes: 

"If  these  be  laudable  or  worthy  of  Recommenda- 
tion, the  Editor  of  the  following  Letters,  which  have 
their  Foundation  both  in  Truth  and  Nature,  ventures 
to  assert,  that  all  these  Ends  are  obtained  here,  to- 
gether." 

In  his  preface  to  the  second  part  of  "Pamela,"  the  author 
indulges  the  hope  that  his  readers  will  find  these  letters 
"equally  written  to  Nature;  .  .  .  and  rules,  equally  new  and 
practicable,  inculcated,  throughout  the  whole,  for  the  gen- 
eral conduct  of  life."2 

Concerning  "Clarissa,"  he  says:  "This  work  being  address- 
ed to  the  public  as  a  history  of  life  and  manners,  those  parts 
of  it  which  are  proposed  to  carry  with  them  the  force  of  ex- 
ample, ought  to  be  as  unobjectionable  as  is  consistent  with 
the  design  of  the  whole,  and  with  human  nature."^ 

A  young  lady,  who  is  "endowed  with  the  noblest 
principles  of  virtue  and  religion,"  and  who  "is  proposed  as 
an  exemplar  to  her  sex,"  "is  seen  involved  in  such  a  variety 
of  deep  distresses,  as  lead  her  to  an  untimely  death;  afford- 
ing a  warning  to  parents  against  forcing  the  inclinations  of 


1.  Barbauld,  "Correspondence  of  Richardson,"  pp.  Ixxiil-lxxiv. 

2.  Preface  to  "Pamela." 

3.  The  Preface,  and  the  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe.»» 


46  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

y  their  children  in  the  most  important  article  of  their  lives; 
and  to  children,  against  hoping  too  far  from  the  fairest  as- 
surance af  a  man  void  of  principles."* 

"Sir  Charles  Grandison  is,  therefore,  in  the  general  tenor 

.of  his  principles  and  conduct,  .  .  .  proposed  for  an  example; 

/and,  in  offering  him  as  much,  were  his  character  still  more 

/  perfect  than  it  is  presumed  to  be,  the  Editor  is  supported  by 

/    an  eminent  divine  of  our  country .2 

;  "  There  is  no  manner  of  inconvenience  in  having  a  pat- 

tern propounded  to  us  of  so  great  perfection,  as  is  above 
our  reach  to  attain.  The  way  to  excel  in  any  kind,  is  'op- 
tima quaeque  ad  imitandum  proponere';  to  propose  the 
brightest  and  most  perfect  examples  to  our  imitation.  .  .  ." 
The  letters  written  by  Clarissa's  *cruel  destroyer,'  "it  is 
hoped,  afford  many  useful  lessons  to  the  gay  part  of  man- 
kind against  the  misuse  of  wit  and  youth,  of  rank  and  for- 
tune, and  of  every  outward  accomplishment,  which  turns 
them  into  a  curse  to  the  miserable  possessor,  as  well  as  to 
all  around  him."^ 

"It  will  be  seen,  by  this  time,  that  the  author  had  a 
great  end  in  view.  He  had  lived  to  see  skepticism  and 
infidelity  openly  avowed,  and  even  endeavored  to  be 
propagated  from  the  press;  the  great  doctrines  of  the 
Gospel  brought  into  question;  those  of  self-denial  and 
mortification  blotted  out  of  the  cataloj?ue  of  Christian 
virtues;  and  a  taste  even  to  wantonness  for  out-door 
pleasure  and  luxury,  to  the  general  exclusion  of  do- 
mestic as  well  as  public  virtue,  industriously  promoted 
among  all  ranks  and  degrees  of  people.  In  this  gen- 
eral depravity,  when  even  the  pulpit  had  lost  great  part 
of  its  weight,  and  the  clergy  are  considered  as  a  body 
of  interested  men,  the  author  thought  he  should  be 
able  to  answer  it  to  his  own  heart,  be  the  success  what 
it  would,  if  he  threw  in  his  mite  towards  introducing  a 
reformation  so  much  wanted:  and  he  imagined,  that  if 
in  an  age  given  up  to  diversion  and  entertainment,  he 
could  steal  in,  as  may  be  said,  and  investigate  the  great 


1.  Preface  to  "Sir  Charles  Grandison." 

2.  Concluding  Note  to  "Sir  Charles  Grandison." 

Richardson  held  that  all  characters  designed  to  be  successful  should  be 
patterns  nearly  perfect  in  virtue  and  honor.  In  the  Concluding  Note  he 
asks:  "Is  not  vice  crowned  with  success,  triumphant,  and  rewarded  and, 
perhaps,  set  oflf  with  wit  and  spirit,  a  dangerous  representation?"  Of 
course  Richardson  was  striking  here  at  his  rival,  Fielding,  too. 

3.  Preface  to  "Sir  Charles  Grandison." 


I 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 

doctrines  of  Christianity  under  the  fashionable  dis- 
guise of  amusement;  he  should  be  most  likely  to  serve 
his  purpose. . .  ."^ 

In  the  preface  to  "Clarissa,"  the  author  gives  some 
things  that  are  "more  particularly  aimed  at":  "To 
warn  the  inconsiderate  and  thoughtless  of  one  sex, 
against  the  base  arts  and  designs  of  specious  contrivers 
of  the  other — to  caution  parents  against  the  undue  ex- 
ercise of  their  natural  authority  over  their  children  in 
the  great  article  of  marriage — to  warn  children  against 
preferring  a  man  of  pleasure  to  a  man  of  probity  upon 
the  dangerous  but  too  commonly  received  notion,  that 
a  reformed  rake  makes  a  good  husband — but  above  all, 
to  investigate  the  highest  and  most  important  doctrines 
not  only  of  morality,  but  of  Christianity,  by  showing 
them  thrown  into  action  in  the  conduct  of  the  worthy 
characters;  , ,  ? 

Richardson  was  perhaps  more  severely  criticised  in  his 
day  for  his  open  attack  against  the  thory  of  poetical  justice 
and  the  universally  accepted  notion  of  honor  involved  in 
the  practice  of  dwelling,  than  he  was  for  any  of  the  other 
reforms  he  championed.  In  defense  of  Sir  Charles's  cour- 
age, honor,  and  integrity  of  character,  which  were  at  stake 
because  he  refused  what  were  called  "polite  invitations  to 
murder,"  the  author  maintained  that  "the  true  bravery  is 
to  adhere  to  all  duties  under  all  disadvantages;  and,  that  re-' 
fusing  a  duel  is  a  duty  to  ourselves,  our  fellow-creatures, 
and  our  maker."^ 

In  a  letter  dated  7th  November,  1748,  Richardson  wrote: 
"These  (advance  copies)  will  show  you,  sir,  that  I  intend 
more  than  a  Novel  of  Romance  by  this  Piece;  and  that  it  is 
of  the  tragic  kind:  In  short,  that  I  thought  my  principal 
Character  could  not  be  rewarded  by  any  Happiness  short  of 
the  Heavenly.  But  how  have  I  suffered  by  this  from  the 
Cavils  of  some,  from  the  Prayers  of  others,  from  the  en- 
treaties of  many  more,  to  make  what  is  called  a  Happy  end- 
ing!— Mr.  Lyttelton,  the  late  Mr.  Thompson,  Mr.  Cibber, 
and  Mr.  Fielding  have  been  among  these." 

"If  the  temporary  suffering  of  the  virtuous  and  good  can 
be  accounted  for  and  justified  on  Pagan  principles  (which 


h 


1.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

2.  Preface  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

3.  Concluding  Note  to  "Sir  Charles  Grandison.' 


48  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

it  can  be),  many  more  and  infinitely  stronger  reasons  will 
occur  to  a  Christian  reader  in  behalf  of  what  are  called  un- 
happy catastrophes,  from  the  consideration  of  the  doctrine 
of  future  rewards;  which  is  everyivhere  strongly  enforced 
in  the  History  of  Clarissa."^  And  on  another  page  of  the 
same,  he  attempts  to  justify  his  attitude:  "The  Author  of 
the  History  (or  rather  Dramatic  Narrative)  of  Clarissa  is 
therefore  well  justified  by  the  Christian  system  in  deferring 
to  extricate  suffering  virtue  to  the  time  in  which  it  will  meet 
with  the  completion  of  its  reward."  For  all  those  who  en- 
tered into  the  sufferings  of  the  unfortunate  heroine,  the  au- 
thor held  out  these  condolences:  "The  heroine,  however, 
as  a  truly  Christian  heroine,  proves  superior  to  her  trials; 
and  her  heart  always  excellent,  refined  and  exalted  by  every 
one  of  them,  rejoices  in  the  approach  of  a  happy  eternity."^ 
He  maintains  that  Heaven  only  could  reward  a  young  lady 
of  such  Christian  virtue  and  honor,  and  appends  a  footnote 
in  which  he  reminds  the  reader  "that  so  early  in  the  work 
as  Vol.  II.  Letter  XL.,  the  dispensations  of  Providence  are 
justified  by  herself."  He  continues:  "And  thus  she  ends 
her  reflections — 'I  shall  not  live  always — may  my  closing 
scene  be  happy!'  he  concludes:  "She  had  her  wish.  It  was 
'Happy.'  "3 

Miss  Thompson  thinks  that  Richardson  never  quite 
freed  himself  from  the  puritanical  prejudice  against  fiction; 
and  says  that  he  would  have  had  his  books  classed,  not  with 
"Robinson  Crusoe,"  or  "Oroonoko,"  or  "Moll  Flanders," 
but  with  works  of  devotion,  such  as  Taylor's  "Holy  Living 
and  Dying,"  the  "Practice  of  Piety,"  and  Nelson's 
"Fasts  and  Festivals;"  'not  as  being  unworthy  of  such  com- 
pany, but  that  they  may  have  a  chance  of  being  dipt  into 
thirty  years  hence;  .  .  .  they  will  not  be  found  unworthy  of 
such  a  chance,  since  they  appear  in  the  humble  guise  of  a 
novel  only  by  way  of  accomodation  to  the  manners  and 
taste  of  an  age  overwhelmed  with  luxury,  and  abandoned 
to  sound  and  senselessness.'  Such  being  his  view,  she  adds, 
"It  is  not  surprising  that  his  amiable  characters  are  at  so 


1.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

2.  Preface  to  "Sir  Charles  Grandison. 

3.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe," 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  49 

much  pains  to  rebuke  offenders  and  formulate  moral  laws 
for  the  benefit  of  all  their  acquaintance,  or  even  his  bad 
ones,  Lovelace  included,  should  indulge  in  a  vast  amount  of 
serious  reflection."^  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  ob- 
scure printer  of  London  was  sincere  in  his  efforts  at  reform 
by  means  of  fiction. 

But  Richardson  found  it  very  difficult  to  understand 
how  anyone  could  possibly  put  Fielding  in  a  class  with  re- 
formers. The  "low"  morahty  of  "The  Foundling"  had,  he 
thought,  an  "evil  tendency."  Of  course  he  professes  never 
to  have  read  these  books  for  fear  of  contaminating  his 
mind;  but  always  to  have  depended  upon  the  judgment  of 
his  friends,  which  judgment  he  severely  reprimanded  if  it 
tended  to  praise  his  rival's  work.  Aaron  Hill's  daughters, 
Minerva  and  Astraea,  were  asked  to  read  "Tom  Jones"  and 
give  their  opinion  of  it.  When  they  were  little  girls,  they 
had  wept  over  "Pamela"  while  reading  it,  and  naturally  he 
expected  a  scathing  criticism  of  "Tom  Jones."  But 
to  his  amasement  and  chagrin  these  "two  wise  heads"  dis- 
covered "much  masqu'd  merit,  both  of  head  and  heart"  in 
the  work.  "The  whole  piece,"  they  wrote,  "consists  of  an 
inventive  Race  of  Disappointments  and  Recoveries.  .  .  .Its 
Events  reward  Sincerity,  and  punish  and  expose  Hypocrisy; 
shew  Pity  and  Benevolence  in  amiable  Lights,  and  Avarice 
and  Brutality  in  very  despicable  ones.  In  every  Part  it  has 
Humanity  for  its  Intentions.  .  .  ."^ 

The  jealous  author  of  "Pamela"  must  have  felt  indig- 
nant at  this  favorable  comment,  for  just  one  week  later  he 
replied:  "I  must  confess,  that  I  have  been  prejudiced  by  the 
Opinion  of  Several  judicious  Friends  against  the  truly 
coarse- titled  Tom- Jones';  and  so  have  been  discouraged 
from  reading  it.^  I  was  told,  that  it  was  a  rambling  Col- 
lection of  Waking  Dreams,  in  which  Probability  was  not 
observed:    And  that  it  had  a  very  bad  Tendency.    And  I  had 


1.  Clara  L.  Thompson,  "Samuel  Richardson,'*  pp.  255-256. 

2.  See  W.  L.  Cross's,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  U,  p.  146. 

3.  Fielding  undoubtedly  had  this  type  of  critic  in  mind  when  he  wrote:  **But 
without  ascertaining  all  the  proper  qualifications  of  a  critic,  ...  I  think 
I  may  very  boldly  object  to  the  censures  of  any  one  passed  upon  works 
which  he  hath  not  himself  read.  Such  censurers  as  these,  whether  they 
speak  from  their  own  guess  or  suspicion,  or  from  the  report  and  opinion 
of  others,  may  properly  be  said  to  slander  the  reputation  of  the  book  they 
condemn."— "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XI,  Ch.  1 


so  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

Reason  to  think  that  the  Author  intended  for  his  Second 
View  (His  first  to  fill  his  Pocket,  by  accommodating  it  to 
the  reigning  Taste)  in  writing  it,  to  whiten  a  vicious  char- 
acter, and  to  make  Morality  bend  to  his  Practice.  What 
reason  had  he  to  make  his  Tom  illegitimate,  in  an  Age 
where  Keeping  is  become  a  fashion?  Why  did  he  make 
him  a  common — ^What  shall  I  call  it?  And  a  Kept  Fellow, 
the  Lowest  of  Fellows,  yet  in  love  with  a  Young  Creature 
who  was  trapping  after  him,  a  Fugitive  from  her  Father's 
House? — ^Why  did  he  draw  his  heroine  so  fond,  so  foolish, 
and  so  insipid?  Indeed  he  has  one  Excuse — He  knows  not 
how  to  draw  a  delicate  Woman — He  has  not  been  accus- 
tomed to  such  Company, — And  is  too  prescribing,  too  im- 
petuous, too  immoral,  I  will  venture  to  say,  to  take  any 
other  Byass  than  that  a  perverse  and  crooked  Nature  has 
given  him;  or  Evil  Habits,  at  least,  have  confirm'd  in  him. 
Do  men  expect  Grapes  of  Thorns,  or  Figs  of  Thistles?  But, 
perhaps,  I  think  the  worse  of  the  Piece  because  I  know  the 
writer,  and  dislike  his  Principles  both  Public  and  Private, 
tho'  I  wish  well  to  the  Man,  and  Love  Four  worthy  Sisters 
of  his,  with  whom  I  am  well  acquainted.  And  indeed 
should  admire  him  should  he  make  the  Use  of  his  talents 
which  I  wish  him  to  make.  For  the  Veign  of  Humor,  and 
Ridicule,  which  he  is  master  of,  might,  if  properly  turned, 
do  great  Service  to  the  Cause  of  Virtue."^ 

Such  was  the  ill-advised  judgment  of  this  biased  critic 
who  had  the  distinction  of  being  the  first,  and  perhaps  the 
only  great  novelist  at  this  time,  the  author  of  "Tom  Jones" 
excepted.  Barring  enmity  against  Fielding,  owing  to  his 
"ungenerous  engraftment,"  and  jealousy  of  him,  owing  to 
the  increasing  popularity  of  his  works,  it  is  very  probable 
that  Richardson  was  sincere  in  his  judgment;  for  the  two 
differ  fundamentally  iii  their  attitude  towards  morality. 

"Where  Richardson  saw  only  perfection,"  says  Profes- 
sor Cross,  "he  (Fielding)  discovered  flaws;  where  Richard- 
son saw  unrelieved  vice,  he  saw  streaks  of  something  that 
resembled  goodness,  such  as  the  transcient  compunction  of 
Jonathan  Wild  for  the  pain  inflicted  upon  his  victims. 
Likewise,  the  four  lewd  women  in  Tom  Jones' — Molly  Sea- 


J.  See  W.  L.  Cross's,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  H,  p.  147. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  SI 

grim,  Mrs.  Walters,  Mrs.  Fitzpatrick,  and  Lady  Bellaston, 
each  carefully  differentiated  from  the  others  in  accordance 
with  the  grade  of  society  to  which  she  belonged — are  given 
in  union  with  their  predominant  weakness  those  admirable 
qualities  which  they  possessed  in  real  lif  e."^ 

"Pamela"  and  "Clarissa  Hariowe"  "merely  evoked  the 
reply  from  Fielding,"  he  says,  "that  Mr.  Richardson  could 
hardly  hope  to  reform  the  age  by  imposing  upon  it  manners 
worse  than  those  existing  anywhere  in  town  or  country." 
Consequently,  "he  wrote  a  novel  on  the  lines  of  *Pamela,' 
descriptive  of  life  as  he  had  seen  it  in  the  country,  true  in  all 
exterior  details  as  well  as  in  sentiment  and  motives;  true 
also  to  the  primal  emotions  which,  'mutatis  mutandis,'  have 
always  governed  the  conduct  of  men  and  women."^  In 
other  words.  Fielding  wrote  "with  his  eye  on  life";  Richard- 
son wrote,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  with  "his  eye  upon  the 
ladies" — and  of  course  he  was  coached  by  them.  He  re- 
cords of  himself  that  when  he  was  still  a  small  boy  he  had 
two  peculiarities,  one  of  which  was,  that  he  loved  the 
society  of  women  best.  As  to  his  inclinations  later  in  life, 
he  declares:  "My  acquaintance  lies  chiefly  among  the 
ladies;  I  care  not  who  knows  it."  It  is  evident  that  he  had 
seen  too  little  of  real  life  to  know  what  it  actually  was. 
"Richardson's  knowledge,"  says  Mrs.  Oliphant,  "was  only 
of  good  sort  of  people,  and  secondary  literateurs,  and — 
women,  who  are  not  the  world,  as  everybody  knows."^ 

In  collaboration  with  the  ladies  who  surrounded  Rich- 
ardson in  the  little  room  in  which  he  wrote,  sentimental 
idealism,  or  life  as  they  imagined  it  ought  to  be,  was  the 
inevitable  result;  but  when  Fielding  entered  upon  the  great 
epic  of  the  road,  he  found  it  "very  difficult  to  pursue  a  series 
of  human  actions,  and  keep  clear  from  vice."*  But  even 
so;  Mrs.  Oliphant  maintained  openly  that  Fielding's  "wick- 
ednesses are  not  wicked,  but  mere  accidents — warmth  of 
blood  and  rapidity  of  movement  carrying  him  away.  And 
then  his  knowledge  of  the  world. "^ 


1.  See  W.  L.  Cross's,  **The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  IH.  p.  275. 

2.  «Ibld.,»'  III,  pp.  282-283. 

3.  'Historical    Sketches   in   the  Reign   of   George   II.'    "Blackwood's,"   March, 
1869,  p.  254. 

4.  Preface  to  "Joseph  Andrews." 

5.  'Historical   Sketches  in  the  Reign   of  George  11.'    "Blackwood's,"  March, 
1869,  p.  254.  ' 


52  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

Certainly  no  one,  not  even  Richardson,  has  a  right  to 
judge  a  book  immoral  until  he  knows  the  author's  inten- 
tions. As  to  "Joseph  Andrews"  and  "Tom  Jones,"  the  au- 
thor is  very  frank  and  explicit  in  disclosing  his  artistic  aims 
and  moral  purposes.  He  justifies  them  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  is  even  now  in  the  twentieth  century  fully 
capable  of  justifying  his  own  motives. 

"Truth,"  says  Professor  Perry,  "shall  be  the  keynote  of 
his  (the  novelist's)  art,  and  the  truth  that  he  reveals  shall  be 
seen  in  us  as  beauty. "^  Mr.  Fielding  was  certainly  seeking 
the  truth  concerning  human  nature,  if  we  may  judge  from 
the  chapter  beginning  the  thirteenth  book  of  "Tom  Jones," 
in  which  he  invokes  to  his  aid,  "Experience,  long  conver- 
sant with  the  wise,  the  good,  the  learned,  and  the  polite. 
Nor  with  them  only,  but  with  every  kind  of  character,  from 
the  minister  at  his  levee  to  the  bailiff  in  his  spunging  house; 
from  the  duchess  at  her  drum  to  the  landlady  behind  her 
bar.  From  thee  only,  can  the  manners  of  mankind  be 
known;  to  which  the  recluse  pedant,  however  great  his 
^  parts  or  extensive  his  learning  may  be,  hath  ever  been  a 
\  stranger."^  The  fruit  of  Fielding's  wide  observation  upon 
human  nature  is  seen  in  Tom  Jones  whom  his  creator  would 
have  us  accept  as  a  very  fine  type  of  person — a  charming 
figure:  one  adorned  with  youth,  health,  strength,  freshness, 
spirit,  and  good  nature.^ 

"The    following    book,"    Fielding    declared     of 

V       'Amelia,'  "is  sincerely  designed  to  promote  the  cause 

of  virtue,  and  to  expose  some  of  the  most  glaring  evils, 

as  well  public  as  private,  which  at  present  infest  the 

country "'*    And  he  adds  presently:    "To  retrieve 

the  ill  consecfuences  of  a  foolish  conduct,  and  by  strug- 
gling manfully  with  distress  to  subdue  it,  is  one  of  the 
noblest  efforts  of  wisdom  and  virtue."^ 

"I  declare  that  to  recommend  goodness  and  inno- 
cence hath  been  my  sincere  endeavor  in  this  history. 
This  honest  purpose  you  have  been  pleased  to  think  I 
have  attained:  and  to  say  the  truth,  it  is  likeliest  to  be 
attained  in  books  of  this  kind;  for  an  example  is  a  kind 


1.  Bliss  Perry,  "A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction,**  p.  257. 

2.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XIII,  Ch.  1. 

3.  "Ibid.,"  Bk.  IX,  Ch.  ii. 

4.  Dedication  of  "Amelia.** 

5.  "Amelia,*'  Ch.  1. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


53 


of  picture,  in  which  virtue  becomes,  as  it  were,  an  ob-" 
ject  of  sight  and  strikes  us  with  an  idea  of  that  loveli- 
ness, which  Plato  asserts  there  is  in  her  naked 
charms."! 

"The  author  everywhere  teaches  this  moral,  that  the 
greatest  and  truest  happiness  which  this  world  affords, 
is  to  be  found  only  in  the  possession  of  goodness  and 
virtue;  a  doctrine,  which  as  it  is  undoubtedly  true,  so 
hath  it  so  noble  and  practical  a  tendency,  that  it  can 
never  be  too  often  or  too  strongly  inculcated  on  the 
minds  of  men."^ 

"It  is  a  trite  but  true  observation  that  examples 
work  better  on  the  mind  than  precepts:  and  if  this  be 
just  in  what  is  odious  and  blamable,  it  is  more  strongly 
so  in  what  is  amiable  and  praiseworthy.  ...  A  good 
man  therefore  is  a  standing  lesson  to  all  his  acquaint- 
ances. . .  "3 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  AUworthy,  Square,  the  philosopher, 
had  this  to  say  concerning  Tom  Jones:  "Believe  me,  my 
friend,  this  young  man  hath  the  noblest  generosity  of 
heart,  the  most  perfect  capacity  for  friendship,  the 
highest  integrity,  and  indeed,  every  virtue  which  can 
enoble  a  man."^ 

In  "Jonathan  Wild,"  the  author  aimed  to  present 
the  history  of  a  character,  neither  totally  good  nor  bad, 
to  insure  "the  great  perfection  called  uniformity  of 
character."  "We  would  not,  therefore,  be  understood 
to  affect  giving  the  reader  a  perfect  or  consummate 
pattern  of  human  excellence,  but  rather,  by  faithfully 
recording  some  little  imperfections  which  shadow  over 
the  lustre  of  those  great  qualities  which  we  shall  here 
record,  to  teach  the  lesson.  .  ."^ 

"I  believe  it  is  much  easier  to  make  good  men  wise, 
than  to  make  bad  men  good.  ...  I  have  employed  all 
the  wit  and  humor  of  which  I  am  master  in  the  follow- 
ing history.  ...  to  laugh  mankind  out  of  their  favor- 
ite follies  and  vices."^ 

Fielding  was  always  careful  to  disclaim  any  intention  to 
vilify  particular  persons;  and  so,  referring  to  the  lawyer  in 
"Joseph  Andrews,"  he  states  very  frankly  that  he  does  not 
intend  to  expose  one  pitiful  wretch  to  the  small  and  con- 


^ 


1.  Dedication  of  "Tom  Jones." 

2.  Introduction  to  "A  Journey  from  This  World  to  the  Next.' 

3.  Preface  to  "Joseph  Andrews." 

4.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XVIII,  Ch.  Iv. 

5.  "Jonathan  Wild,"  Bk.  I,  Ch.  1. 

6.  Dedication  of  "Tom  Jones." 


54  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

temptible  circle  of  his  acquaintance,  but  that  he  does  in- 
tend to  hold  the  glass  to  thousands  in  their  closets,  that  they 
may  contemplate  their  deformity,  and  endeavor  to  reduce 
it."i 

"By  examining  carefully  the  several  gradations 
which  conduce  to  bring  every  model  to  perfection,  we 
learn  truly  to  know  that  science  in  which  the  model  is 
formed:  as  histories  of  this  kind,  therefore,  may  prop- 
erly be  called  models  of  *Human  Life,'  so,  by  observing 
minutely  the  several  incidents  which  tend  to  the  catas- 
trophe or  completion  of  the  whole,  and  the  minute 
causes  whence  those  incidents  are  produced,  we  shall 
best  be  instructed  in  the  most  useful  of  all  arts,  wliich 
I  caU  the  'Art  of  Life.'  "2 

In  the  introductory  chapter  to  the  last  book  of  "Tom 
Jones,"  the  author  makes  this  leave-taking  confession  to  his 
readers:  "And  now,  my  friends,  I  take  this  opportunity.  .  . 
of  heartily  wishing  thee  well.  If  I  have  been  an  entertain- 
ing companion  to  thee,  I  promise  thee  it  is  what  I  have  de- 
sired. . .  ."3 

The  last  book  that  Fielding  wrote  for  publication  was 
"The  Voyage  to  Lisbon."  In  the  concluding  paragraph  of 
his  preface,  the  dying  man  dispels  from  the  mind  of  his 
readers  any  lingering  doubt  there  may  be  as  to  his  own  aims 
and  sincere  motives: 

"One  hint,  however,  I  must  give  the  kind  reader: 
which  is,  that  if  he  should  be  able  to  find  no  sort  of 
amusement  in  the  book,  he  will  be  pleased  to  remem- 
ber the  public  utility  which  will  arise  from  it.  K  en- 
tertainment, as  Mr.  Richardson  observes,  is  but  a 
secondary  consideration  in  a  romance;  with  which  Mr. 
Addison,  I  think,  aggrees,  ...  if  this,  I  say,  be  true  of 
a  mere  work  of  invention,  surely  it  may  well  be  so  con- 
sidered in  a  work  founded,  like  this,  on  truth;  and 
where  the  poUtical  reflections  form  so  distinguishing  a 
part. 

"But  perhaps  I  may  hear,  from  some  critic  of  the 
most  saturnine  complexion,  that  my  vanity  must  have 
made  a  horrid  dupe  of  my  judgment,  if  it  hath  flatter- 
ed me  with  an  expectation  of  having  anything  here 


1.  "Joseph  Andrews/*  Bk.  lU,  Ch.  i. 

2.  -Amelia,"  Bk.  I,  Ch.  1. 

9.  'Tom  Joaeft,"  fik.  XVUh  Ch.  1. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  55 

seen  in  a  grave  light,  or  of  conveying  any  useful  in- 
struction to  the  public,  or  to  the  guardians.  I  answer 
with  the  great  man  whom  I  just  now  quoted,  that  my 
purpose  is  to  convey  instruction  in  the  vehicle  of  enter- 
tainment. .  ."^ 

Fielding  was  certainly  a  conscious  reformer.    As  play-  ( 
Wright,  as  justice,  as  novelist,  his  wit  and  humor  were  re-  \ 
peatedly  directed  against  the  corruption  and  vice  of  the  day. 
But  (and  this  is  greatly  to  the  artist's  credit)  Fielding  seems 
never  to  have  been  an  insistent  reformer.     He  earnestly  de-  i 
sired  to  expose  sham  and  hypocrisy  in  politics,  in  society, 
and  in  religion;  consequently  he  marshalled  all  the  wit  and 
humor  at  his  command  to  this  end,  but  he  formulated  no 
system  or  code  of  morality  as  did  Richardson. 

Professor  Phelps  pronounces  Tobias  Smollett  a  "nat- 
uraUst,"2  which  pronouncement  is  certainly  not  far  from 
the  truth.  The  genuine  delight  that  he  manifests  in  de- 
scribing many  of  the  indecent  facts  of  life,  with  which  his 
works  abound,  is,  to  say  the  least,  closely  akin  to  the  coars- 
er physical  passions.  But  whether  or  not  Smollett's  plea  in 
his  preface  is  hypocritical,  as  Professor  Raleigh  maintains,^ 
does  not  concern  us  here.  Granted,  however,  that  it  is 
true,  the  accusation  tends  to  confirm  one  of  the  contentions 
of  this  thesis,  namely  that  public  sentiment  was  rapidly 
crystallizing  on  the  matter  of  reform;  and,  therefore,  the 
novelist,  even  though  sometimes  contrary  to  his  personal 
inclinations,  was  forced  to  design  his  book  to  satify  his 
reader's  taste  for  moralization.  Richardson's  tempera- 
ment made  it  quite  easy  for  him  to  comply  with  the  pervail- 
ing  sentiment;  but  Smollett's  disposition  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent one.  His  training  and  experience  very  probably  ren- 
dered him  impotent,  within  the  body  of  his  work,  to  yield 
to  the  prevalent  taste.  He  obviated  this  difficulty  by  pre- 
tending in  his  preface  to  have  so  yielded.  He  was  in  doubt 
as  to  how  his  book  would  be  received,  for  he  states  frankly 
that  his  "fate  with  the  pubHc  is  uncertain."  For  the  pres- 
ent, however,  we  are  interested  only  in  what  he  himself  de- 
clared his  aim  and  purpose  to  be. 


1.  Preface  to  "The  Voyage  to  Lisbon." 

2.  W.  L.  Phelps,  "The  Advance  of  the  English  Novel,"  p.  65. 
8.  Walter  Raleigh.  "The  EngUsh  Novel,"  pp.  187-188. 


56  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"Let  me  not,  therefore,  be  condemned  for  having 
chosen  my  principal  character  from  the  purlieus  of 
treachery  and  fraud,"  he  begs,  "when  I  declare  my 
purpose  is  to  set  him  up  as  a  beacon  for  the  benefit  of 
the  unexperienced  and  unwary.  .  .  ." 

"If  I  have  not  succeeded  in  my  endeavours  to  un- 
fold the  mysteries  of  fraud,  to  instruct  the  ignorant 
and  entertain  the  vacant;  if  I  have  failed  in  my  at- 
tempts to  subject  folly  to  ridicule,  and  vice  to  indig- 
nation; to  rouse  the  spirit  of  mirth,  wake  the  soul  of 
compassion,  and  touch  the  secret  springs  that  move 
the  heart;  I  have,  at  least,  adorned  virtue  with  honor 
and  applause,  branded  iniquity  with  reproach  and 
shame,  and  carefully  avoided  every  hint  or  expression 
which  could  give  umbrage  to  the  most  delicate  read- 


er. . 


"1 


A  "principal  personage,"  he  maintained,  was  always 
necessary  in  the  novel  "to  attract  the  attention."  As  to 
how  successful  the  author's  "beacon"  was  in  attracting  at- 
tention, we  have  the  judgment  and  testimony  of  one,  Dr. 
Robert  Anderson,  a  Scottish  physician,  who  brought  out^  in 
1800  an  edition  of  Smollett's  works  with  a  memoir:  "On 
the  great  question  at  issue  his  (Anderson's)  conclusion  was 
that  'after  perusing  the  wire-drawn  history  of  'Clarissa,' 
and  the  diffuse  narrative  of  'Tom  Jones,'  we  never  quit 
them  with  so  much  reluctance  as  we  feel  in  closing  the 
pages  of  Smollett,  who,  with  less  regularity  of  fable,  and 
without  introducing  so  many  observations  of  a  moral  ten- 
dency, or  so  much  of  what  may  be  called  fine  writing,  pos- 
sesses, in  an  eminent  degree,  the  art  of  rousing  the  feelings 
and  fixing  the  attention  of  his  readers.'  "^ 

Smollett  frankly  admits  in  his  preface  that  the  principal 
character  is  tainted  with  vice  and  fraud;  but  he  also  tries 
hard  to  convince  the  reader  that  such  a  one  is  set  up  for  a 
beacon.  Richardson  intended  that  his  characters  should  be 
"fit  to  model  adolescence  by."  Smollett  intended,  accord- 
ing to  his  own  statement,  that  his  should  be  a  warning  to 
adolescence.  He  might  have  reasoned,  "My  purpose  is  the 
same  as  Richardson's;  only  the  means,  in  this  one  respect, 
differs." 


1.  Dedication  to  "Ferdinand  Count  Fathom." 

2.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  III,  p.  164. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  57 

It  is  doubtful  if  Laurence  Sterne  had,  or,  at  least,  profes- 
sed to  have  had  a  distinctly  moral  or  ethical  purpose  in~ 
writing  fiction.  Yet  the  following  sentences  perhaps  imply 
much  more  than  they  say,  and  are,  therefore,  not  without 
significance  here.  In  his  dedication  of  "Tristram  Shandy" 
to  Mr.  Pitt,  he  declares:  "I  am  firmly  persuaded,  that  every 
time  a  man  smiles — ^but  much  more  so  when  he  laughs, — 
it  adds  something  to  this  Fragment  of  Life."  And  he  con- 
tinues: "I  humbly  beg.  Sir,  that  you  will  honor  this  book  by 
taking  it — (not  under  your  protection, — ^it  must  protect  it- 
self, but) — ^into  the  country  with  you;  where,  if  I  am  ever 
told  it  has  made  you  smile,  or  can  conceive  it  has  beguiled 
you  of  one  moment's  pain — I  shall  think  myself  as  happy  as 
a  Minister  of  State.  .  ."i 

Within  the  book  itself  Sterne  gives  us  his  characteriza- 
tion of  Shandeism,  and  tells  us  what  its  effect  on  human 
nature  may  be:  "True  Shandeism,  think  what  you  will 
against  it,  opens  the  heart  and  lungs;  and,  like  all  those  af- 
fections which  partake  of  its  nature,  it  forces  the  blood  and 
other  vital  fluids  of  the  body  to  run  freely  through  their 
channels,  and  makes  the  wheels  of  life  run  long  and  cheer- 
fully round."2 

Johnson  leaves  no  doubt  as  to  the  ethical  and  moral 
purpose  of  his  "Rasselas."  Turn  at  random  to  any  page, 
and  a  text  suitable  for  a  sermon  is  there.  In  the  opening 
lines,  the  author  announces  his  purpose  to  write  a  disqui- 
sition on  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes:  "Ye  who  listen 
with  credulity  to  the  whispers  of  fancy,  and  pursue  with 
eagerness  the  phantoms  of  hope;  who  expect  that  age  will 
perform  the  promises  of  youth,  and  that  the  deficiencies  of 
the  present  day  will  be  supplied  by  the  morrow,  attend  to 
the  history  of  Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia."^ 

Johnson  published  his  opinions  at  length  in  the  "Ram- 
bler." Here  he  expressed  not  only  his  own  settled  convic- 
tions, but  summarized  in  a  clear  and  forceful  manner  sev- 
eral phases  of  eighteenth-century  theory  of  novel  writing. 

"The  works  of  fiction,  with  which  the  present  gen- 
eration seems  more  particularly  delighted,  are  such  as 


1.  Dedication  of  "Tristram  Shandy." 

2.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  IV,  Ch.  xxxii. 

3.  "Rasselas,"  Ch.  i. 


58  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

^  exhibit  life  in  the  true  state,  diversified  by  accidents 
that  daily  happen  in  the  world,  and  influenced  by  pas- 
sions and  qualities  which  are  really  to  be  found  in  con- 
versing with  mankind. 

"This  kind  of  writing  may  be  termed  not  improp- 
erly the  comedy  of  romance,  and  is  to  be  conducted 
nearly  by  the  rules  of  comic  poetry.  Its  province  is  to 
bring  about  natural  events  by  easy  means,  and  to  keep 
curiosity  without  the  help  of  wonder:  it  is  therefore 

N  precluded  from  the  machines  and  expedients  of  the 
heroick  romance,  and  can  neither  employ  giants  to 
snatch  away  a  lady  from  the  nuptial  rites,  nor  knights 
to  bring  her  back  from  captivity;  it  can  neither  be- 
wilder its  personages  in  deserts,  nor  lodge  them  in  im- 
aginary castles." 

"The  task  of  our  present  writers  is  very  different 
(from  that  of  the  authors  of  the  old  romance) ;  it  re- 
quires, together  with  that  learning  which  is  to  be  gain- 
ed from  books,  that  experience  which  can  never  be  at- 
^  tained  by  solitary  diligence,  but  must  arise  from  gen- 
eral converse  and  accurate  observation  of  the  living 
world.  Their  performances  have,  as  Horace  express- 
es it,  *plus  oneris  quantum  veniae  minus,'  little  indul- 
gence, and  therefore  more  difficult.  They  are  en- 
gaged in  portraits  of  which  every  one  knows  the  origi- 
nal, and  can  detect  any  deviation  from  exactness  of  re- 
semblance. Other  writings  are  safe,  except  from  the 
malice  of  learning,  but  these  are  in  danger  from  every 
common  reader:  as  the  slipper  ill  executed  was  cen- 
sured by  a  shoemaker  who  happened  to  stop  in  his  way 
at  the  Venus  of  Apelles. 

"But  the  fear  of  not  being  approved  as  just  copiers 
of  human  manners,  is  not  the  most  important  concern 
that  an  author  of  this  sort  ought  to  have  before  him. 
These  books  are  written  chiefly  to  the  young,  the  ig- 
\  norant,  and  the  idle,  to  whom  they  serve  as  lectures  of 
conduct,  and  introductions  into  life.  They  are  the  en- 
tertainment of  minds  unfurnished  with  ideas,  and 
therefore  easily  suceptible  of  impressions;  not  fixed  by 
principles,  and  therefore  easily  following  the  current 
of  fancy;  not  informed  by  experience,  and  consequent- 
ly open  to  every  false  suggestion  and  partial  account. 

"That  the  highest  degree  of  reverence  should  be 
paid  to  youth,  and  that  nothing  indecent  should  be  suf- 
fered to  approach  their  eyes  or  ears,  are  precepts  ex- 
torted by  sense  and  virtue  from  an  ancient  writer,  by 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


59 


no  means  eminent  for  chastity  of  thought.  The  same 
kind,  though  not  the  same  degree  of  caution,  is  re- 
ouired  in  every  thing  which  is  laid  before  them,  to  se- 
cure them  from  unjust  prejudices,  perverse  opinions, 
and  incongruous  combinations  of  images. 

"In  the  romances  formerly  written,  every  transac- 
tion and  sentiment  was  so  remote  from  all  that  passes 
amona  men,  that  the  reader  was  m  very  httle  danger 
of  making  any  appHcations  to  himself;  the  virtues  and 
crimes  wire  equally  beyond  his  sphere  of  activity;  and 
he  amuses  himself  with  heroes  and  with  traitors  ^e- 
liverers  and  persecutors,  and  with  beings  of  another 
species,  whose  actions  are  regulated  upon  motives  of 
thdr  own,  and  who  had  neither  faults  nor  excellencies 
in  common  with  himself. 

"But  when  an  adventurer  is  levelled  with  the  rest 
of  the  world,  and  acts  in  such  scenes  of  the  universal 
drama  as  may  be  the  lot  of  any  other  man;  young 
spectators  fix  their  eyes  upon  him  with  closer  atten- 
tion, and  hope,  by  observing  his  behaviour  and  suc- 
cess, to  regulate  their  own  practices,  when  they  shall 
be  engaged  in  the  like  part. 

"For  this  reason  these  familiar  histories  may  per- 
haps be  made  of  greater  use  than  the  solemnities  of 
professed  moraUty,  and  convey  the  knowledge  of  vice 
and  virtue  with  more  efficacy  than  axioms  and  deti- 
nitions.  But  if  the  power  of  example  is  so  great  as 
to  take  possession  of  the  memory  by  a  kind  ot  vio- 
lence, and  produce  effects  almost  without  the  interven- 
tion of  the  will,  care  ought  to  be  taken,  that,  when  the 
choice  is  unrestrained,  the  best  examples  only  should 
be  exhibited;  and  that  which  is  likely  to  operate  so 
strongly,  should  not  be  mischevious  or  uncertain  m 

"T^ie  chief  advantage  which  these  fictions  have 
over  real  life  is,  that  their  authors  are  at  liberty, 
though  not  to  invent,  yet  to  select  objects,  and  to  cuU 
from  the  mass  of  mankind,  those  individuals  upon 
which  the  attention  ought  most  to  be  employed:  as  a 
diamond,  though  it  cannot  be  made,  may  be  polished 
by  Trt?  and  placed  in  such  a  situation,  a&  to  display 
that  lustre  which  before  was  buried  among  common 

stones.  „  f 

"It  is  justly  considered  as  the  greatest  excellency  ot 
art,  to  imitate  nature;  but  it  is  necessary  to  distinguish 
those  parts  of  nature,  which  are  most  proper  for  imi- 
tationf  greater  care  is  stiU  required  m  representing 


\ 


THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

life,  which  is  so  often  discoloured  by  passion  or  de- 
formed by  wickedness.  If  the  world  be  promiscuous- 
ly described,  I  cannot  see  of  what  use  it  can  be  to  read 
the  account:  or  why  it  may  not  be  as  safe  to  turn  the 
eye  immediately  upon  mankind  as  upon  a  mirrour 
which  shows  all  that  presents  itself  without  discrimi- 
nation. 

"It  is  therefore  not  a  sufficient  vindication  of  a  char- 
acter, that  it  is  drawn  as  it  appears;  for  many  char- 
acters ought  never  to  be  drawn;  nor  a  narrative,  that 
the  train  of  events  is  agreeable  to  observation  and  ex- 
perience; for  that  observation  which  is  called  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  will  be  found  more  frequently  to 
make  men  cunning  than  good.  The  purpose  of  these 
writings  is  surely  not  only  to  show  mankind,  but  to 
provide  that  they  may  be  seen  hereafter  with  less  haz- 
ard; to  teach  the  means  of  avoiding  the  snares  which 
are  laid  by  Treachery  for  Innocence,  without  infusing 
any  wish  for  the  superiority  with  which  the  betrayer 
flatters  his  vanity;  to  give  the  power  of  counteracting 
fraud,  without  the  temptation  to  practice  it;  to  initi- 
ate youth  by  mock  encounters  in  the  art  of  necessary 
defence,  and  to  increase  prudence  without  impairing 
virtue." 

"In  narratives  where  historical  veracity  has  no 
place,  I  cannot  discover  why  there  should  not  be  ex- 
hibited the  most  perfect  idea  of  virtue  not  angelical, 
nor  above  probability,  for  what  we  cannot  credit,  we 
shall  never  imitate,  but  the  highest  and  purest  that  hu- 
manity can  reach,  which,  exercised  in  such  trials  as  the 
various  revolutions  of  things  shall  bring  upon  it,  may, 
by  conquering  some  calamities,  and  enduring  others, 
teach  us  what  we  may  hope,  and  what  we  can  perform. 
Vice,  for  vice  is  necessary  to  be  shown,  should  always 
disgust;  nor  should  the  graces  of  gayety,  or  the  dig- 
nity of  courage,  be  so  united  with  it,  as  to  reconcile  it 
to  the  mind.  Wherever  it  appears,  it  should  raise 
hatred  by  the  malignity  of  its  practices,  and  contempt 
by  the  meanness  of  its  stratagems;  for  while  it  is  sup- 
ported by  either  parts  or  spirit,  it  will  be  seldom  heart- 
ily abhorred.  The  Roman  tyrant  was  content  to  be 
hated,  if  he  was  but  feared;  and  there  are  thousands  of 
the  readers  or  romances  willing  to  be  thought  wicked, 
if  they  may  be  allowed  to  be  wits.  It  is  therefore  to  be 
steadily  inculcated,  that  virtue  is  the  highest  proof  of 
understanding,  and  the  only  solid  basis  of  greatness; 
and  that  vice  is  the  natural  consequence  of  narrow 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  61 

thoughts;  that  it  begins  in  mistake,  and  ends  in  igno- 
miny."i 

Horace  Walpole  caled  "Clarissa  Harlowe"  and  "Sir 
Charles  Grandison"  "tedious  lamentations,"  and  "romances 
as  they  would  be  spiritualized  by  a  Methodist  preacher." 
In  "Rasselas"  this  moralizing  tendency  has  gone  even  far- 
ther. "The  novel  of  Richardson,"  says  Professor  Cross, 
"has  thus  been  turned  to  the  purpose  of  an  excellent  funeral 
sermon."2  , 

Sterne's  indirect  influence  upon  the  masses  as  liberator^ 
of  the  novel  was  doubtless  far  more  potent,  in  the  long  run,l 
than  any  hidden  intention  or  motive  to  reform  society  could  ^ 
have  been.     In  the  matter  of  social  reform,  his  works  show  \ 
very  little,  if  any,  indication  of  desire  for  change.    The  real  ^ 
purpose  this  inovator  seems  to  have  had  in  using  the  novel 
was  a  personal  one,  namely  that  he  might  have  free  utter- 
ance for  his  own  peculiar  way  of  viewing  life;  and  that  ( 
while  giving  his  own  views,  he  might  cut  such  a  caper  be- 
fore the  literary  public  as  to  encourage,  and  possibly  to  ex- 
cite others  to  disregard  the  "rules  and  compasses"  of  Neo-  I 
Classicism.     With  the  small  critics  of  his  day — those  "be-  / 
fetched  with  the  bobs  and  trinkets  of  criticism" — he  had  no 
patience.     It  was  largely  because  of  such  critics  that  ther 
was  danger,  by  1760,  of  the  novel  becoming  little  more  than 
a  photographic  reproduction  of  the  social  conditions  of  the 
times.     Sterne  calmly  and  quitely  determined  it  should  not 
become  such;  and  hence  he  defiantly  threw  himself  directly 
across  the  traditions.     In  thus  asserting  his  own  liberty,  he 
was  making  liberty  reasonably  safe  for  all  who  would  fol- 
low. 

"Sterne's  well-known  outburst  as  to  criticims,"  says 
Professor  Saintsbury,"is  far  too  famous  a  thing  to  be  passed 
over  with  the  mere  allusion  given  to  it.  .  .  Nay,  it  may  be 
said  at  once,  from  its  fame  and  from  its  forcible  expression, 
to  have  had,  and  even  in  a  sense  still  to  have,  no  small  place 
among  the  Dissolvents  of  Judgment  by  Rule."^  The  fact 
that  his  criticism  had  great  liberalizing  influence  upon  the 


1.  The  "Rambler,"  No.  IV. 

2.  W.  L.  Cross,  "Development  of  the  English  Novel,"  p.  78. 

3.  George  Saintsbury,  "A  History  of  Criticism,"  HI,  p.  86. 


62  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

theory  of  novel  writing  in  Sterne's  day,  is  reason  for  its  re- 
appearance here  at  length: 

"Now  don't  let  us  give  ourselves  a  parcel  of  airs, 
and  pretend  that  the  oaths  we  make  free  with  in  this 
land  of  liberty  of  ours  are  our  own;  and,  because  we 
have  the  spirit  to  swear  them, — imagine  that  we  have 
had  the  wit  to  invent  them  too. 

"I'll  undertake  this  moment  to  prove  it  to  any  man 
in  the  world,  except  to  a  connoisseur  in  swearing, — as 
I  would  do  to  a  connoisseur  in  painting,  &c.,  &c.,  the 
whole  set  of  'em  are  so  hung  round  and  befetish'd 
with  the  bobs  and  trinkets  of  criticism, — or,  to  drop 
my  metaphor,  which  bye  the  bye  is  a  pity, — for  I  have 
fetched  it  as  far  as  from  the  coast  of  Guinea, — their 
heads,  Sir,  are  stuck  so  full  of  rules  and  compasses, 
and  have  that  eternal  propensity  to  apply  them  upon 
all  occasions,  that  a  work  of  genius  had  better  go  to  the 
Devil  at  once,  than  to  stand  to  be  prick'd  and  tortur'd 
to  death  by  'em. 

" — And  how  did  Garrick  speak  the  soliloquy  last 
night? — Oh,  against  all  rule  my  Lord — most  ungra- 
matically!  betwixt  the  substantive  and  the  adjective, 
which  should  agree  together  in  number,  case,  and 
gender,  he  made  a  breach  thus, — stopping  as  if  the 
point  wanted  settling; — and  betwixt  the  nominative 
case,  which,  your  Lordship  knows,  should  govern  the 
verb,  he  suspended  his  voice  in  the  epilogue  a  dozen 
times,  three  seconds  and  three-fifths  by  a  stop-watch, 
my  Lord,  each  time. — Admirable  grammarian! — But 
in  suspending  his  voice, — was  the  sense  suspended 
likewise? — Did  no  expression  of  attitude  or  counte- 
nance fill  up  the  chasm? — was  the  eye  silent? — Did 
you  narrowly  look? — I  looked  only  at  the  stop-watch, 
my  Lord. — Excellent  observer! 

"And  what  of  this  new  book  the  whole  world 
makes  such  a  rout  about? — Oh,  'tis  out  of  all  plumb, 
my  Lord, — quite  an  irregular  thing! — not  one  of  the 
angles  at  the  four  corners  was  a  right  angle. — I  had  my 
rule  and  compasses,  &c.,  my  Lord,  in  my  pocket. — Ex- 
cellent critic ! 

" — And  for  the  epic  poem  your  Lordship  bid  me 
look  at, — upon  taking  the  length,  breadth,  height,  and 
depth  of  it,  and  trying  them  at  home,  upon  an  exact 
scale  of  Bossu's, — 'tis  out,  my  Lord,  in  every  one  of 
its  dimensions. — Admirable  connoisseur! 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  63 

** — And  did  you  step  in,  to  take  a  look  at  the  grand 
picture  on  your  way  back? — Tis  a  melancholy  daub, 
my  Lord !  not  one  principle  of  the  pyramid  in  any  one 
group ! — and  what  a  price ! — for  there  is  nothing  of  the 
colouring  of  Titian — the  expression  of  Rubens — the 
grace  of  Raphael — the  purity  of  Dominichino — the 
corregiescity  of  Corregio — the  learning  of  Poussin — 
the  airs  of  Guido — the  taste  of  the  Caraccis — or  the 
grand  contour  of  Angelo. — Grant  me  patience,  just 
Heaven!  Of  all  the  cants  which  are  canted  in  this 
canting  world, — though  the  cant  of  hypocrites  may  be 
the  worst, — the  cant  of  criticism  is  the  most  torment- 
ing! 

"I  would  go  fifty  files  on  foot,  for  I  have  not  a  horse 
worth  riding  on,  to  kiss  the  hand  of  that  man  whose 
generous  heart  will  give  up  the  reins  of  his  imagina- 
tion into  his  author's  hands, — be  pleased  he  knows  not 
why,  and  cares  not  wherefore. 

"Great  Apollo!  if  thou  art  in  a  giving  humor, — 
give  me, — I  ask  no  more,  but  one  stroke  of  native 
humor,  with  a  single  spark  of  thy  own  fire  along  with 
it, — and  send  Mercury,  with  the  rules  and  compasses, 
if  he  can  be  spared,  with  my  compliments  to, — no 
matter."! 

"When  Sterne's  influence  began  to  be  felt  throughout 
Europe,  in  translations  and  imitations — ^zigzag  journeys 
here  and  there — "  says  Professor  Cross,  "it  did  more  than 
all  else  to  free  literature  from  the  depression  of  the  serious 
sentimentalism  of  Richardson,  Rosseau,  and  their  school."^ 

It  could  hardly  be  maintained,  in  justice  to  Goldsmith, 
that  he  really  intended  as  utilitarian  the  vein  of  morality 
that  runs  throughout  his  charming  book;  for  no  incident,  or 
scene,  or  conversation  appears  to  have  been  studied. 
Things  just  seem  to  happen  by  chance  in  "The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  as  they  came  by  chance  to  the  eccentric,  but  il- 
ulstrious  author.  A  fierce  satirical  spirit  is  not  Gold- 
smith's. "We  bless  the  name  of  an  author  who  contrives 
so  well  to  reconcile  us  to  human  nature,"  said  Scott,  referr- 
ing to  Goldsmith.  There  seems  no  good  reason  to  suppose 
that  he  did  not  exert  the  same  beneficial  influence  a  half 
century  before  Scott's  day. 


1.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  Bk.  m,  Ch.  xii. 

2.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  Development  of  the  English  Novel,*'  p.  76. 


64  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

Horace  Walpole  willingly  pointed  out  "defects"  in  "The 
Castle  of  Otranto"  which,  he  asserted,  should  be  charged 
against  the  Italian  author:  "Yet  *I  am  not  blind  to  my 
author's  defects,"  he  says  apologetically  in  his  preface  to 
the  first  edition,  and  adds:  "I  could  wish  he  had  grounded 
his  plan  on  a  more  useful  moral  than  this;  'that  the  sins  of 
fathers  are  visited  on  their  children  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generation.'  "* 

"The  business  of  romance,"  Miss  Reeve  says,  "is,  first,  to 
excite  the  attention;  and  second,  to  direct  it  to  some  useful 
or  at  least  innocent,  end."^ 

To  certain  radicals  in  the  last  decade  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  injustice  of  or^E^anized  society  had  become  un- 
bearable; and  to  many,  natural  evolutionary  processes,  such 
as  those  of  Fielding,  Sterne,  Johnson,  and  Goldsmith,  were 
too  slow  and  too  uncertain.  More  violent  and  revolution- 
ary methods  were  deemed  expedient  and  necessary.  The 
one  notable  exponent  of  social  and  political  justice,  too  long 
delayed,  was  William  Godwin,  the  author  of  "Caleb  Wil- 
liams." The  sentiments  of  the  characters  are  the  author's 
own.  Through  his  characters  he  makes  known  his  ideas  of 
political  justice,  and  announces  the  real  purpose  of  the 
book: 

"I  will  tell  a  tale — !  The  justice  of  the  country  shall 
hear  me !  .  .  .  Too  long  have  I  been  tender-hearted  and  for- 
bearing .  . . 

"No,  I  will  use  no  daggers!  I  will  unfold  a  tale! — 
I  will  show  thee  to  the  world  for  what  thou  art;  and  all  the 
men  that  live,  shall  confess  my  truth  !"^ 

The  moral  of  "Caleb  Williams"  is  contained  in  one  of 
the  concluding  reflections:  "Of  what  use  are  talents  and 
sentiments  in  the  corrupt  wilderness  of  society."  The  au- 
thor's convictions  concerning  the  state  of  society,  including 
reasons  for  his  opinions,  are  reflected  in  the  preface,  dated 
May  12, 1794: 

"The  following  narrative  is  intended  to  answer  a 
purpose  niore  general  and  important  than  immediate- 


1.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto."    Preface  to  the  First  Edition. 

2.  Preface  to  "The  Old  English  Baron." 

3.  "Caleb  Williams/'  Ch.  xv. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  65 

ly  appears  upon  the  face  of  it.  The  question  now 
afloat  in  the  world  respecting  things  as  they  are  is  the 
most  interesting  that  can  be  presented  to  the  human 
mind.  While  one  party  pleads  for  reformation  and 
change,  the  other  extols  in  the  warmest  terms  the  ex- 
isting constitution  of  society.  It  seems  as  if  some- 
thing would  be  gained  for  the  decision  of  this  question, 
if  that  constitution  were  faithfully  developed  in  its 
practical  effects.  What  is  now  presented  to  the  public 
is  not  refined  and  abstract  speculation;  it  is  a  study 
and  delineation  of  things  passing  in  the  moral  world; 
it  is  but  of  late  that  the  inestimable  importance  of 
political  principles  has  been  adequately  apprehended. 
It  is  now  known  to  philosophers,  that  the  spirit  and 
character  of  the  government  intrudes  itself  into  every 
rank  of  society.  But  this  is  a  truth  highly  worthy  to 
be  communicated  to  persons  whom  books  of  philos- 
ophy and  science  are  never  likely  to  reach.  Accord- 
ingly it  was  proposed,  in  the  invention  of  the  following 
work,  to  comprehend,  as  far  as  the  progressive  nature 
of  a  single  story  would  allow,  a  general  view  of  the 
modes  of  domestic  and  unrecorded  despotism  by 
which  man  becomes  the  destroyer  of  man.  If  the  au- 
thor shall  have  taught  a  valuable  lesson,  without  sub- 
tracting from  the  interest  and  passion  by  which  a  per- 
formance of  this  sort  ought  to  be  characterised,  he 
will  have  reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon  the 
vehicle  he  has  chosen."* 

Thus  it  is  clear  that  the  new  fiction  was  used  by  leading 
authors  from  Richardson  to  Godwin  as  a  means  to  an  end. 
The  first  great  novelists  used  the  story  "rather  as  a  vehicle 
to  instruction."  Walpole,  the  dilettante,  the  dabbler  in 
things  unusual  and  radical,  dared  not  publish  his  work 
without  at  least  a  pretense  at  apology  for  the  spurious 
Italian  author.  And  the  last  novelist  of  the  century  to  win 
enduring  literary  fame,  employed  his  talents  to  teach  his 
so-called  valuable  lesson,  that  "man  is  the  chief  enemy  of 
man." 


1.  Preface  to  "Caleb  Williams." 


CHAPTER  IV 
MEANS  OF  REACHING  THE  INNER  LIFE 

"Realistic  fiction,"  Says  Professor  Perry,  "is  that  which 
does  not  shrink  from  the  commonplace  (although  art 
dreads  the  commonplace)  or  from  the  unpleasant  (al- 
though the  aim  of  art  is  to  give  pleasure)  in  its  aim  to  depict 
things  as  they  are,  life  as  it  is."^  Professor  Perry's  defi- 
nition of  realistic  fiction  is  sensible,  comprehensive,  logical, 
and  sound.  Life  as  it  is,  in  respect  both  to  the  outer  and 
inner  life  of  the  English  people,  is  the  subject  matter  of 
eighteenth-century  fiction;  and  thus,  broadly  speaking 
every  author  in  this  period  is  a  reahst.^  Richardson  called 
his  greatest  novel  "a  history  of  life  and  manners";  and  he 
justified  his  prolixity  on  the  ground  that  "there  was  fre- 
quently a  necessity  to  be  very  circumstantial  and  minute, 
in  order  to  preserve  and  maintain  that  air  of  probability 
which  is  maintained  in  a  story  designated  to  represent  real 
life."3 

Fielding  writes:  "It  is  our  business  to  discharge  the  part 
of  a  faithful  historian,  and  describe  human  nature  as  it  is, 
not  as  we  would  wish  it."  Later  he  makes  it  clear  he  will 
not  bend  human  nature  to  comply  with  the  received  opin- 
ions about  it:  "I  must  remind  such  persons  (those  who 
think  his  scenes  unnatural)  that  I  am  not  writing  a  system, 
but  a  history,  and  I  am  not  obhged  to  reconcile  every  mat- 
ter of  the  received  notions  concerning  truth  and  nature."* 

Smollett  declared:  "I  have  not  deviated  from  nature  in 
the  facts,  which  are  all  true  in  the  main."^ 

Sterne  found  that  "human  nature  is  the  same  in  aU  pro- 
fessions."^ 


1.  Bliss  Perry,  "A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction,"  p.  229. 

2.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  Development  of  the  English  Novel,"  p.  57. 

3.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

4.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XII,  Ch.  viii. 

5.  Preface  to  **Boderick  Random." 

6.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  III,  Ch.  xiii. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  67 

With  regard  to  the  domestics,  Walpole  wrote,  "My  rule 
was  nature."! 

Miss  Burney  maintained  that  her  heroine  was  the  "off- 
spring of  Nature,  and  of  Nature  in  her  simplest  attire."^ 

Didacticism,  too,  links  eighteenth-century  novels  with 
realism.  Richardson  was  interested  in  investigating  the 
"great  doctrines  of  Christianity";  and  every  novelist,  it  ap- 
pears, was  eager  to  advance  the  cause  of  morality  and 
virtue.  "I  think  it  may  fairly  be  claimed,"  says  Professor 
Perry,  "that  the  theory  on  which  realism  is  based  is  in  close 
accord  with  the  spirit  of  Christianity.  For  the  theory  of 
reahsm  teaches  that  the  *every  day  life  of  all'  is  worth  some- 
thing— ^if  only  worth  describing;  it  teaches  the  reality  of  our 
present  experiences,  the  significant.  The  world  becomes 
intelligible,  interesting.  It  is  a  live  world — God's  world. 
The  forces  about  us  are  real;  the  men  and  women  we  know 
are  real  personalities."^  This  was  the  basic  stuff  used  in 
eighteenth-century  fiction,  and  the  theory  generally  under- 
stood, though  not  definitely  formulated,  upon  which  the 
novel  was  built. 

No  one  can  read  consecutively  the  great  novels  of  Rich- 
ardson, Fielding,  Smollett,  Sterne,  and  Goldsmith  without 
concluding  that  a  unity  of  purpose,  such  as  this,  dominated 
each  author.  On  the  other  hand,  no  one,  after  having  read 
"Clarissa"  and  "Tom  Jones,"  could  possibly  attribute  both 
novels  to  the  same  author.  Though  each  declared  his  pur- 
pose was  to  give  a  faithful  picture  of  human  nature,  the 
finished  product  was,  after  all,  life  as  he  saw  it — ^life  inter- 
preted by  the  author's  own  way  of  looking  at  it.  "Art," 
says  a  noted  French  author,  "is  a  bit  of  nature  seen  through 
a  temperament."  The  use  made  of  the  materials,  there- 
fore, depends  upon  the  taste  and  aims  of  the  author  who 
uses  them. 

To  insure  the  novel's  reaching  the  inner  life  of  society, 
and  thus  accomplishing  "the  great  end  in  view,"  each  au- 
thor had  to  determine  what  was  for  him  the  best  means  of 
presenting  his  material.  To  this  end,  it  was  necessary  for 
each  to  search  out  and  to  prove  his  own  temperament.    The 


1.  Preface  to  *"rhe  Castle  of  Otranto." 

2.  Preface  to  *'Evelina." 

3.  Bliss  Perry,  "A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction^^^^p.  243-244;  246, 


«8  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

means  employed  by  the  great  novelists  may  be  thus  char- 
acterized: 

I.  Sentiment — ^provoked  by  analysis,  pathos,  and  gentle 
humor.  II.  Satire,  or  better,  ridicule — softened  by  wit  and 
vigorous  humor.  III.  Satire — mitigated  by  coarse  humor. 
IV.  Terror — an  appeal  to  the  emotions  of  curiosity,  wonder, 
and  fear.  In  the  last  class  belong  Walpole,  (to  a  certain 
extent,  Smollett,  and  Godwin)  Miss  Reeve,  Mrs.  Radcliffe, 
Beckford,  and  "Monk"  Lewis;  in  the  third  class,  Smollett 
alone;  in  the  second,  Fielding  and  Sterne;  in  the  first,  Rich- 
ardson, Sterne,  and  Goldsmith. 

"It  was  by  his  sentiment,"  says  Professor  Raleigh,  "that 
Richardson  gained  an  immediate  and  enduring  popularity, 
and  became  the  founder  of  a  school  of  novelists."^  And 
Mr.  Dobson  writes:  "He  was  the  pioneer  of  a  new  move- 
ment; the  first  certified  practitioner  of  sentiment;  the  Eng- 
lish Columbus  of  the  analytical  novel  of  ordinary  life.  Be- 
fore him,  no  one  essayed  in  this  field  to  describe  the  birth 
and  growth  of  a  new  impression,  to  show  the  ebb  and  flow 
of  emotion  in  a  mind  distraught,  to  follow  the  progress  of  a 
passion,  to  dive  so  deeply  into  the  human  heart.  . .  ."^ 

The  meaning  and  purpose  of  sentiment,  as  understood 
and  used  by  Richardson  and  his  followers,  is  satisfactorily 
explained  by  Mr.  Hazlitt:  "The  interest  of  the  story  (Pa- 
mela) increases  with  the  dawn  of  understanding  and  reflec- 
tion in  the  heroine:  her  sentiments  gradually  expand  them- 
selves, like  opening  flowers.  She  writes  better  every  time, 
and  acquires  a  confidence  in  herself,  just  as  a  girl  would  do, 
in  writing  such  letters  in  such  circumstances;  and  yet  it  is 
certain  that  no  girl  would  write  such  letters  in  such  circum- 
stances. What  I  mean  is  this — Richardson's  nature  is  al- 
ways the  nature  of  sentiment  and  reflection,  not  of  impulse 
lor  situation.  He  furnishes  his  characters,  on  every  occa- 
sion, with  the  presence  of  mind  of  the  author.  He  makes 
them  act,  not  as  they  would  from  impulse  of  the  moment, 
but  as  they  might  upon  reflection,  and  upon  careful  review 
of  every  motive  and  circumstance  in  their  situation."^ 


1.  Walter  Raleigh,  "The  English  Novel,'*  p.  IfiO. 

2.  Austin  Dobson,  "Samuel  Richardson,"  p.  197. 

3.  William  Hazlitt,  "English  Comic  Writers,"  p.  160. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  09 

Sentiment  is  defined  in  the  New  Century  Dictionary  as 
"thought,  opinion,  notion;  judgment;  and  decisions  of  the 
mind  formed  by  dehberation  or  reflection."  The  charac- 
ters, particularly  in  the  novels  of  Richardson,  Sterne,  and 
Goldsmith  are  apt  to  express  deliberate  judgment  on  all 
matters  relating  to  the  common  concerns  of  life.  In  the 
course  of  his  biography,  Tristram  Shandy  says:  "I  have 
undertaken,  you  see,  to  write  not  only  my  life,  but  my 
opinions  also."^ 

Sterne  followed  Richardson  in  the  use  of  sentiment,  but 
his  is  sentiment  of  a  different  quality.  It  is  far  more  subtle 
than  Richardson's,  and  evinces  an  air  of  naturalness  in 
keeping  with  the  character  that  is  not  common  to  Richard- 
son's. There  is  perfect  blending  of  characterization  and 
sentiment: 

"My  Uncle  Toby  was  a  man  patient  of  injuries: — not 
from  want  of  courage.  .  .  . — but  he  was  a  peaceful,  placid 
nature — no  jarring  element  in  it — all  was  mixed  up  so 
kindly  within  him;  my  uncle  Toby  had  scarce  a  heart  to  re- 
taliate upon  a  fly. 

" — Go, — says  he  one  day  at  dinner,  to  an  overgrown  one 
which  had  buzzed  about  his  nose,  and  tormented  him 
cruelly  all  dinner-time, — and  which,  after  infinite  attempts, 
he  had  caught  at  last,  as  it  flew  by  him; — I'll  not  hurt  a  hair 
of  thy  head; — Go, — says  he,  lifting  up  the  sash,  and  opening 
his  hand  as  he  spoke,  to  let  it  escape; — go,  poor  devil,  get 
thee  gone;  why  should  I  hurt  thee? — This  world  surely  is 
wide  enough  to  hold  both  thee  and  me."^ 

The  Vicar,  unsuccessful  in  the  pursuit  of  his  daughter, 
resolved  to  return  home.  Vexed  and  weary  in  body  and  in 
spirits,  he  entered  a  little  alehouse  where  he  remained  for 
three  weeks,  brooding  and  railing  at  the  misfortunes  Provi- 
dence had  sent  upon  him.  The  fortunate  appearance  of  a 
traveler  at  the  inn  restored  his  health  and  tranquility, 
whereupon  he  started  homeward,  condemning  thus  the 
pride  that  had  made  him  refractory  to  the  hand  of  cor- 
rection: 


1.  "Tristram  Shandy  »  I.  Ch.  vl. 

2.  "Ibid.,"  U.  Ch.  xil. 


10  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"Man  little  knows  what  calamities  are  beyond  his  pa- 
tience to  bear,  til  he  tries  them:  as  in  ascending  the  heights 
of  ambition,  which  looks  bright  from  below,  every  step  we 
rise  shows  us  some  new  and  gloomy  prospect  of  hidden  dis- 
appointment; so  in  our  descent  from  the  summits  of  pleas- 
ure, though  the  veil  of  misery  below  may  appear  at  first 
dark  and  gloomy,  yet  the  busy  mind,  still  attentive  to  its 
own  amusement,  finds,  as  we  descend,  something  to  flat- 
ter and  to  please.  Still  as  we  approach,  the  darkest  object 
appears  to  brighten,  and  the  mental  eye  becomes  adapted  to 
its  gloomy  situation."^ 

When  friends  and  admirers  criticised  the  inordinate 
length  of  his  novel,  Richardson  replied  that  he  was  repre- 
senting real  life,  and  that  it  was  frequently  necessary  to  be 
circumstantial  and  minute.     What  the  author  really  meant 
was  that  he  was  dissecting  and  analyzing  the  female  heart, 
and  that  he  was  reporting  his  discoveries  in  letters  purport- 
ed to  have  been  written  by  the  ladies  themselves.    The  sen- 
timents of  a  female  heart  are  manifold  and  varied.     This 
is  true  especially  when  her  sentiments  are  incited  by  hopes 
that  are  beyond  her  reach;  and  when  they  are  aroused  by 
unforeseen  circumstances  over  which  she  has  no  control,  as 
is  the  case  in  Richardson's  novels.     It  would  require  undue 
length,  therefore,  to  get  Pamela's  or  Clarissa's  sentiments 
uttered  once.     But  the  incessant  repeating — the  doubling 
back  necessary  with  the  letter  for  Pamela  to  tell  the  same 
incident  to  Mrs.  Jewkes,  to  her  parents,  and  to  Mr.  B. — 
made  very  great  length  inevitable.     "Why,  sir,"  says  John- 
son, "if  you  were  to  read  Richardson  for  the  story,  your 
impatience  would  be  so  much  fretted  that  you  would  hang 
yourself.     You  must  read  him  for  the  sentiment,  and  con- 
sider the  story  only  as  giving  rise  to  the  sentiment."^    Those 
who,  like  Johnson  and  Richardson,  thought  a  book  deserv- 
ed praise  mainly  because  of  its  sentiments  on  virtue  and 
religion,  made  no  serious  objection  to  the  length  of  the 
piece. 

To  make  the  sentiment  of  the  characters  seem  natural, 
and  to  make  them  doubly  strong  in  accomplishing  the  great 


1.  **The  vicar  of  Wakefield."  Ch.  xviii. 

2.  Boswell's  "Ufa  of  Johnson,"  Blrkbeck  Hill  Ed.,  U,  p.  175. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  71 

end  in  view,  the  letter  method  best  suited  Richardson's  pur- 
pose. These  sentiments,  he  declared,  were  provoked  while 
the  heart  was  agitated  by  hopes  and  fears,  on  events  unde- 
cided, and  written  after  a  moment's  intense  reflection;  or, 
as  he  put  it,  "to  the  moment."  Due  to  this  fact,  Richardson 
argued,  the  letter  method  had  much  in  its  favor  to  com- 
mend it.  The  length  of  the  piece,  though  necessary  on  ac- 
count of  it,  was  nevertheless  excusable: 

"The  nature  of  familiar  letters,  written,  as  it  were,  to  the 
moment,  while  the  heart  is  agitated  by  hopes  and  fears,  on 
events  undecided,  must  plead  an  excuse  for  the  bulk  of  a 
collection  of  this  kind.  Mere  facts  and  characters  might  be 
comprised  in  a  much  smaller  compass:  but,  would  they  be 
equally  interesting  ?"i 

"All  the  letters  are  written,"  he  says  in  another  place, 
"while  the  hearts  of  the  writers  must  be  supposed  to  be 
wholly  engaged  in  their  subjects  (the  events  at  the  time 
generally  dubious) :  so  that  they  abound  not  only  with  crit- 
ical situations,  but  with  what  may  be  called  instantaneous 
descriptions  and  reflections  (proper  to  be  brought  home  to 
the  breast  of  the  youthful  reader) .  .  ."^  "Much  more  lively 
and  affecting,"  he  makes  one  of  his  characters  say,  "must 
be  the  style  of  those  who  write  in  the  height  of  a  present 
distress;  the  mind  tortured  by  the  pangs  of  uncertainty 
(the  events  then  hidden  in  the  womb  of  fate) ;  than  the  dry, 
narrative,  unaimated  style  of  a  person  relating  difficulties 
and  dangers  surmounted,  can  be.  .  ." 

Richardson's  design  in  using  the  epistolary  style  is  clear- 
ly set  forth  in  these  words: 

"The  letters  and  conversations,  where  the  story  makes 
the  slowest  progress,  are  presumed  to  be  characteristic. 
They  give  occasion,  likewise,  to  suggest  many  interesting 
personalities,  in  which  a  good  deal  of  the  instruction  essen- 
tial to  a  work  of  this  nature  is  conveyed."^  In  other  words, 
when  Miss  Howe  wrote  to  Clarissa  in  the  very  beginning, 
"Every  eye,  in  short,  is  upon  you  with  the  expectation  of  an 
.example,"  she  doubtless  meant  to  caution  Clarissa  against 
letting  fall  in  a  careless  manner  those  "delicate  sentiments," 


1.  Preface  to  "Sir  Charles  Grandison." 

2.  Preface  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe.'* 

3.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 


72  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

which,  in  all  probability,  they  would  exchange;  for  they 
would,  she  presumed,  not  only  arrest  attention,  but  also 
arouse  discussion  and  comment.     Such  was  Richardson's  , 

hope  and  expectation;  and  the  letter  method  had  much  to  do  I 

with  the  success  of  his  plans.     It  gave  ample  opportunity  ' 

for  that  breadth  and  depth  of  sentiment  which  is  natural 
to  the  individual,  not  only  when  he  is  quiet  and  pensive,  but 
especially  so  when  he  is  aroused  and  agitated,  perhaps  at 
some  pinnacle  moment  or  crisis  of  hfe.  "Not  only  did 
Richardson  aim  to  teach  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls," 
says  Professor  Cross,  "that  righteousness  will  be  rewarded 
and  sin  punished  either  here  or  hereafter, .  .  .  but  he  sought 
to  arouse  discussion  on  special  cases  of  conduct."^ 

But  the  sentiment  of  Richardson,  Goldsmith,  and  Sterne 
was  not  always  the  direct  result  of  deliberation;  it  was  fre- 
quently the  expression  of  the  emotions  without  the  aid  of 
judgment;  and  thus  it  gave  rise  to  what  has  sometimes  been 
called  "sensibility. "2  In  Richardson's  Lovelace,  the  reader 
meets  perhaps  the  first  man  of  "feeling"  in  the  English 
novel.  Mr.  Lovelace  did  not  like  tragedies,  and  frankly 
gave  his  reason  for  not  liking  them: 

"Yet,  for  my  own  part,"  he  wrote  to  Belford,  "I  loved 
not  tragedies;  though  she  (Clarissa)  did,  for  the  sake  of  the 
instruction,  the  warning,  and  the  example  generally  given 
in  them. 

"I  had  too  much  "feeling";  I  said.  There  was  enough  in 
the  world  to  make  our  hearts  sad,  without  carrying  grief 
into  our  diversions,  and  making  the  distress  of  others  our 
own."3 

Sadness  and  grief  is  exactly  what  the  author  of  "Claris- 
sa Harlowe"  forced  upon  his  characters;  they,  in  turn, 
transmitted  to  the  reader  the  effect  of  this  emotion.  But 
though  Richardson  was,  as  Professor  Raleigh  maintains, 
"the  inaugurator  of  a  century  and  a  half  of  hyperaes- 
thesia,"*  he  himself,  it  seems,  never  tried  to  define  the  new 


1.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  Development  of  the  English  Novel,"  p.  39. 

2.  "Sentimentalism,  I  suppose  means,  roughly  speaking,  indulgence  In  emo- 
tion for  its  own  sake.  The  sentimentalist  does  not  weep  because  painful 
thoughts  are  forced  upon  him,  but  because  he  finds  weeping  pleasant  in 
itself.  He  appreciates  the  'luxury  of  grief." — Leslie  Stephen.  "Englisb 
Literature  and  Society  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,"  pp.  148-149. 

S.  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  IV,  Letter  xxxiii. 

4.  Walter  Raleigh,  <*The  English  Novel,"  p.  161. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  73 

emotionalism;  he  left  this  task  for  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  who, years 
later,  defined  it  as  "a  dangerous  quality  which  is  continually 
extracting  the  excess  of  misery  or  delight  from  every  sur-~ 
rounding  object."^ 

When  Pamela  was  on  the  point  of  departure  from  Mr. 
B.'s,  she  recounted  in  a  letter  to  her  parents  her  recent 
trials.  A  touching  lecture  from  Pamela  had  somewhat 
softened  Mr.  B.'s  heart,  but  did  not  prevent  a  fresh  attempt 
upon  her  virtue — an  attempt  in  which  her  trusty  Mrs.  Jervis 
was  an  accompice: 

"O  Mrs.  Jervis !"  she  exclaims,  "what  have  you  done  by 
me? —  ....  Wretched,  wretched  Pamela,  where  shalt  thou 
expect  a  friend,  if  Mrs.  Jervis  joins  to  betray  me  thus?  She 
made  so  many  protestations  (telling  me  all,  and  that  he 
owned  I  had  made  him  wipe  his  eyes  two  or  three  times, 
and  said  she  hoped  it  would  have  a  good  effect,  and  remem- 
bered me,  that  I  had  said  nothing  but  what  would  rather 
move  compassion  than  resentment),  that  I  forgave  her."^ 

"In  1749  appears  Richardson's  'Clarissa  Harlowe'  in 
eight  volumes,  which  from  your  present  lecturer's  point 
of  view  is  quite  sufficiently  described  as  a  patient  analysis 
of  the  most  intolerable  crime  in  all  history  of  fiction,  water- 
ed with  an  amount  of  tears  and  sensibility  as  much  greater 
than  that  in  'Pamela'  as  the  cube  of  eight  volumes  is  great- 
er than  the  cube  of  four  volumes."^ 

Observe  the  attendants  upon  Clarissa  during  her  last 
hours:  "In  this  heart-moving  attitude  she  (Clarissa)  ap- 
peared to  us  when  we  approached  her,  and  came  to  have  her 
lovely  face  before  us,"  writes  Mrs.  Lovick.  "The  Colonel, 
sighing  often,  gazed  upon  her  with  his  arms  folded,  and 
with  the  most  profound  and  affectionate  attention;  till  at 
last,  on  her  starting  and  fetching  her  breath  with  greater 
difficulty  than  before,  he  retired  to  a  screen  that  was  dra\\Ti 

before  her  house,  as  she  calls  it Retiring  thither  he  drew 

out  his  handkerchief,  and  overwhelmed  with  grief,  seemed 
unable  to  speak." 

I   never,   my   best-beloved   and    dearest    cousin,    said 


1.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  v. 

2.  "Pamela,"  I,  Letter  xxix. 

3.  Sidney  Lanier,  "The  English  Novel,»»  p.  183. 


74  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

he  (with  eyes  running  over) ,  shall  forgive  myself,  that  I  did 
not  attend  you  sooner.  "^ 

"She  (Clarissa)  had  fatigued  herself  so  much  .  .  .  that 
she  sunk  her  head  upon  her  pillows,  ready  to  faint;  and  we 
withdrew  to  the  window,  looking  upon  one  another,  but 
could  not  tell  what  to  say;  and  yet  both  seemed  inclinable 
to  speak:  but  the  motion  passed  over  in  silence.  Our  eyes 
only  spoke;  and  that  in  a  manner  neither's  were  used  to — 
mine,  at  least,  not  till  I  knew  this  admirable  creature."^ 

"Her  nurse  was  kneeling  between  the  window  and  Mrs. 
Smith,  her  arms  extended.  In  one  hand  she  held  an  inef- 
fectual cordial,  which  she  had  just  been  offering  to  her  dy- 
ing mistress;  her  face  was  swollen  with  weeping  (though 
used  to  such  scenes  as  this) ;  and  she  turned  her  eyes  toward 
me,  as  if  she  called  upon  my  by  them  to  join  in  the  helpless 
sorrow;  a  fresh  stream  bursting  from  them  as  I  approached 
the  bed."3 

"Poor  Mrs.  Norton  is  come.  She  was  set  down  at  the 
door;  and  would  have  gone  upstairs  directly,  but  Mrs.  Smith 
and  Mrs.  Lovick  being  together  in  tears,  and  the  former 
hinting  too  suddenly  to  the  truly-venerable  woman  the  fatal 
news,  she  sunk  down  at  her  feet  in  fits.  .  . 

"She  was  impatient  to  see  the  corpse.  The  women  went 
up  with  her.  But  they  owned  that  they  were  too  much  af- 
fected themselves  on  this  occasion  to  describe  her  extremely 
affecting  behaviour.  With  trembling  impatience  she  push- 
ed aside  the  coffin-lid.  She  bathed  the  face  with  her  tears, 
and  kissed  the  cheek  and  forehead,  as  if  she  were 
living "4 

And  such  sentiment  seems  to  have  affected  the  eigh- 
teenth-century reader  in  a  similar  manner.  Professor  Gel- 
lert  of  Leipsig,  who  translated  "Pamela"  and  "Sir  Charles 


1.  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  VH,  Letter  xxil. 

Perhaps  the  most  sentimental  of  all  English  novels  is  Henry  Mackenzie's 
"The  Man  of  Feeling,"  1771.  The  author  reminds  his  readers,  needlessly, 
that  the  hero,  Mr.  Harley,  has  a  "feeling  heart."  (Ch.  xxix).  His  face 
was  often  "bathed  with  tears."  Once  when  a  young  girl  cried  in  his 
presence,  "Harley  kissed  oflF  her  tears  as  they  flowed,  and  wept  between 
every  kiss."  (Ch.  xxxv)  But  the  mere  "recollection"  of  tears  was  enough 
to  make  him  weep.     (Ch.  xxviii) 

2.  "Qarissa  Harlowe,"  VU.  Letter  xxii. 

3.  "Ibid."    Letter  xxix. 

4.  "Ibid.,"  VII,  Letter  xixv. 


J 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  75 

Grandison,"  frankly  confessed:  "I  have  formerly  wept  away 
some  of  the  most  remarkable  hours  of  my  life  in  a  sort  of 
delicious  misery,  over  the  seventh  volume  of  *Clarissa'  and 
the  fifth  of  *Grandison.'  "  "In  a  sort  of  delicious  misery, — 
the  words  should  not  be  forgotten,  for  they  precisely  ex- 
press the  sensation  aroused  and  enjoyed  by  contemporary 
readers  of  Richardson,  and  of  the  sentimental  literature 

'-^  that  followed  in  his  wake  of  tears.''^ 

If  Aaron  Hill  describes  the  effect  of  the  concluding  vol- 
umes of  "Clarissa"  on  his  family  circle:  "At  this  moment 
I  have  three  girls  around  me — each  a  separate  volume  in 
her  hand,  and  all  their  eyes  like  a  wet  flower  in  April." 

The  stream  of  emotionalism  that  runs  gently  through 
"The  Vicar  of  Wakefield" — a  stream  that  is  much  clearer 
and  purer  than  either  Richardson's  or  Sterne's — is  some- 
times swollen,  but  seems  never  to  overflow  its  banks. 
Dick's  announcing  that  his  sister  Livy  had  gone,  would  have 
set  the  Vicar  in  a  towering  rage  had  it  not  been  for  his  ap- 
peasing emotionalism:  "But  it  is  not,  it  is  not,"  he  cries, 
"a  small  distress  that  can  wring  tears  from  these  eyes,  that 
have  not  wept  for  so  many  years.  My  child ! — ^To  undo  my 
darling !"  And  his  wife,  he  tells  us,  "could  hardly  speak  for 
weeping."^ 

If  Richardson's  characters  seem  to  be  "extracting  the 
excess  of  misery  ....  from  every  surrounding  object,"  and 
are  thus  illustrating  the  first  phase  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  defi- 
nition of  sentimentalism,  she  makes  her  own  characters 
illustrate  the  second  phase  of  the  definition,  because  they 
are  "continually  extracting  the  excess  ...  of  delight  from 
every  surrounding  object" — especially  from  the  objects  of 
physical  nature. 

"The  serenity  and  clearness  of  the  air  in  these  high  re- 
gions were  particularly  delightful  to  travelers,"  she  says; 
"it  seemed  to  inspire  them  with  a  finer  spirit,  and  to  diffuse 
indescribable  complacency  in  their  minds.  They  had  no 
words  to  express  the  sublime  emotions  they  f elt."^ 


1*  Sr%^-  ^^^iPr^i  "P}%  MZ^^^'^,^^  the  English  Novel,"  pp.  75-76. 

2.  **Vicar  of  Wakefield,'*  Ch.  xvll. 

3.  "Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  iv. 


76  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"While  the  distant  perspective  of  the  valley  was  lost  in 
the  yellow  mist  of  moon-light,  the  travellers  sat  for  some 
time  wrapped  in  the  complacency  which  such  scenes  in- 
spire."! 

"These  scenes,  said  Valancourt,  at  length,  soften  the 
heart  like  the  note  of  sweet  music,  and  inspire  that  delicious 
melancholy,  which  no  person,  who  had  felt  it  once,  would 
resign  for  the  gayest  pleasures.  They  awaken  our  hest  and 
purest  feelings,  disposing  us  to  benevolence,  pity,  and 
friendship.  Those  whom  I  love,  I  always  seem  to  love  more 
in  such  an  hour  as  this.  His  voice  trembled  and  he 
paused."^ 

Thus  in  the  naturalistic  and  in  the  romantic  schools 
there  was  represented  in  sentimentalism  the  same  mood.  It 
is  that  vague  indefinable  feeling — the  uneasy,  restless  feel- 
ing of  discontent  peculiar  to  the  life  and  thought  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  "To  assign  any  precise  philosophical  mean- 
ing to  sentimentalism  would  be  an  absurd  attempt,"  says 
Mr.  Leslie  Stephen,  because  "it  is  much  more  a  social  than 
an  intellectual  phenomenon."^  This  feeling  of  discontent 
with  the  social  and  political  order  is  represented  in  fiction 
by  the  sentimentalists.  Whether  then  the  individual  novel- 
ist is  classed  finally  with  the  naturalistic  or  the  romantic 
school,  makes  little  difference;  for  both  of  them  were  trying 
to  satisfy  the  same  yearning  for  change. 

Mr.  Hazlitt  discovers  at  least  three  different  kinds,  or 
degrees  of  the  laughable:  the  accidental  contradiction  of 
our  expectations;  the  ludicrous,  arising  out  of  the  improba- 
ble; and  the  ridiculous.  The  latter,  which  is  one  of  man's 
own  seeking,  he  regards  as  more  refined  than  either  of  the 
others,  but  he  thinks  that  it  carries  with  it  a  tinge  of  un- 
pleasantness. The  ridiculous  he  defines  as  "that  which  is 
contrary  not  only  to  custom,  but  to  sense  and  reason,  or  is  a 
voluntary  departure  from  what  we  have  a  right  to  expect 
from  those  who  are  conscious  of  absurdity  and  propriety 
in  words,  look,  and  actions."* 


1.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  iv. 

2.  «Ibid.'- 


3.  Leslie  Stephen,  "History  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,* 

4.  wilfiam  HazUtt,  "The  English  Comic  Writers,"  Lecture  I,  p.  5. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  77 

Henry  Fielding  reached  the  inner  life  of  English  society 
by  ridiculing,  with  his  infectious  wit  and  humor,  the  follies 
and  vices  of  his  day.  He  declared  in  the  dedication  of  "Tom 
Jones"  that  he  had  employed  all  the  wit  and  humor  at  his 
command  "to  laugh  mankind  out  of  their  favorite  follies 
and  vices."  "Life  everywhere  furnishes  an  accurate  observ- 
er with  the  ridiculous,"  he  maintains,  and  he  expounds  for 
his  readers  the  meaning  of  the  term: 

"The  Ridiculous  only  .  .  .  falls  within  my  province 
in  the  present  work.  Nor  will  some  explanation  of 
this  word  be  thousht  imnertinent  by  the  reader,  if  he 
considers  how  wonderfully  it  hath  been  mistaken,  even 
by  writers  who  have  professed  it:  for  to  what  but  such 
a  mistake  can  we  attribute  the  many  attempts  to  ridi- 
cule the  blackest  villanies,  and,  what  is  yet  worse,  the 
most  dreadful  calamities?  What  could  exceed  the  ab- 
surdity of  an  author  who  would  write  the  comedy  of 
Nero,  with  the  merry  incident  of  ripping  up  his  moth- 
er's belly?  or  what  would  gj\e  greater  shock  to  human- 
ity than  an  attemnt  to  expose  the  miseries  of  poverty 
and  distress  to  ridicule?  And  yet  the  reader  will  not 
want  much  learning  to  suggest  such  instances  to  him- 
self. 

"Besides,  it  may  seem  remarkable  that  Aristotle, 
who  is  so  ford  and  free  of  definition,  hath  not  thouj?ht 
proper  to  define  the  Ridiculous.  Indeed,  where  he  tells 
us  it  is  proper  to  comedy,  he  hath  remarked  that  vil- 
lany  is  not  its  object,  but  he  hath  not,  as  I  remember, 
positively  asserted  what  it  is.  Nor  doth  the  Abbe  Belle- 
grade,  who  hath  written  a  treatise  on  this  subject, 
thou,f?h  he  shows  us  many  species  of  it,  once  we  trace 
it  to  its  fountain. 

"The  only  source  of  the  true  Ridiculous  (as  it  ap- 
pears to  me)  is  affectation.  But  though  it  arises  from 
one  spring  only,  when  we  consider  the  infinite  streams 
into  which  this  one  branches,  we  shall  presently  cease 
to  admire  at  the  copious  field  it  affords  to  an  observer. 
Now,  affectation  proceeds  from  one  of  these  two 
causes,  vanity  or  hypocrisy:  for  as  vanity  puts  us  on 
affecting"  false  characters,  in  order  to  purchase  ap- 
plause, so  hypocrisy  sets  us  on  an  endeavour  to  avoid 
censure,  by  concealing  our  vices  under  an  appearance 
of  their  opposite  virtues.  And  though  these  two  causes 
are  often  confounded  (for  there  is  some  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  them),  yet  as  they  proceed  from  very 
different  motives,  so  they  are  as  clearly  distinct  in  their 


78  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

operations:  for,  indeed,  the  affectation  which  arises 
from  vanity  is  nearer  to  truth  than  the  other,  as  it  hath 
not  that  violent  repugnancy  to  nature  to  struggle  with 
which  that  of  the  hypocrit  hath.  It  may  be  likewise 
noted  that  affectation  doth  not  imply  an  absolute  ne- 
gation of  those  qualities  which  are  affected;  and,  there- 
fore, though,  when  it  proceeds  from  hypocrisy,  it  be 
nearly  allied  to  deceit;  yet  when  it  comes  from  vanity 
only,  it  partakes  of  the  nature  of  ostentation;  for  in- 
stance, the  affectation  of  liberality  in  a  vain  man  dif- 
fers visibly  from  the  same  affectation  in  the  avari- 
cious; for  though  the  vain  man  is  not  what  he  would 
appear,  or  hath  not  the  virtue  he  affects,  to  the  degree 
he  would  be  thought  to  have  it,  yet  it  sits  less  awk- 
wardly on  him  than  on  the  avaricious  man,  who  is  the 
very  reverse  of  what  he  would  seem  to  be. 

"From  the  discovery  of  this  affectation  arises  the 
Ridiculous,  which  always  strikes  the  reader  with  sur- 
prise and  pleasure;  and  that  in  a  higher  and  stronger 
degree  when  the  affectation  arises  from  hypocrisy  than 
when  from  vanity;  for  to  discover  anyone  to  be  the  ex- 
act reverse  of  what  he  affects  is  more  surprising,  and 
consequently  more  ridiculous,  than  to  find  him  a  little 
deficient  in  the  quality  he  desires  the  reputation  of.  I 
might  observe  that  our  Ben  Jonson,  who  of  all  men 
understood  the  Ridiculous  the  best,  hath  chiefly  used 
the  hypocritical  affectation. 

"Now,  from  affectations  only,  the  misfortunes  and 
calamities  of  life,  or  the  imperfections  of  nature,  may 
become  the  objects  of  ridicule.  Surely  he  hath  a  very 
ill-framed  mind  who  can  look  on  ugliness,  infirmity, 
or  poverty,  as  ridiculous  in  themselves:  nor  do  I  be- 
lieve any  man  living,  who  meets  a  dirty  fellow  riding 
through  the  streets  in  a  cart,  is  struck  with  an  idea  of 
the  Ridiculous  from  it;  but  if  he  should  see  the  same 
figure  descend  from  his  coach  and  six,  or  bolt  from  his 
chair  with  his  hat  under  his  arm,  he  would  then  begin 
to  laugh,  and  with  justice.  In  the  same  manner,  were 
we  to  enter  a  poor  house  and  behold  a  wretched  family 
shivering  with  cold  and  languishing  with  hunger,  it 
would  not  incline  us  to  laughter  (at  least  we  must  have 
very  diabolical  natures  if  it  would) ;  but  should  we  dis- 
cover there  a  grate,  instead  of  coals,  adorned  with 
flowers,  empty  plate  or  china  on  the  sideboard,  or  any 
other  affectation  of  riches  or  finery,  either  on  their  per- 
sons or  in  their  furniture,  we  might  then  indeed  be  ex- 
cused   for    ridiculing    so    fantastical    an  appearance. 


V  IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  79 

Much  less  are  natural  imperfections  the  object  of  de- 
rision: but  when  ugliness  aims  at  the  applauses  of_ 
beauty,  or  lameness  endeavours  to  display  agility,  it  is 
then  that  these  unfortunate  circumstances,  which  at 
first  moved  our  compassion,  tend  only  to  raise  our 
mirth. 

".  .  .  Great  vices  are  the  proper  objects  of  our  de- 
testation, smaller  faults,  of  our  pity;  but  affectation 
appears  to  me  the  only  true  source  of  the  Ridiculous."^ 

In  his  Invocation  beginning  the  thirteenth  book  of 
"Tom  Jones,"  Fielding  calls  to  his  aid,  "First,  Genius: 
thou  gift  of  heaven;  without  whose  aid  in  vain  we 
struggle  against  the  stream  of  nature.  .  .  Teach  me  .  .  . 
to  know  mankind  better  than  they  know  themselves. 
Remove  that  mist  which  dims  the  intellects  of  mortals, 
and  causes  them  to  adore  men  for  their  art,  or  to  de- 
test them  for  their  cunning,  in  deceiving  others,  when 
they  are,  in  reality,  the  objects  only  for  ridicule,  for 
deceiving  themselves.  Strip  off  the  disguise  of  wisdom 
from  self-conceit,  of  plenty  from  avarice,  and  of  glory 
from  ambition.  Come,  thou  that  hast  inspired  thy 
Moliere,  thy  Shakespeare,  thy  Swift,  thy  Marivaux,  fill 
my  pages  with  humor,  till  mankind  learns  the  good- 
nature to  laugh  only  at  the  follies  of  others,  and  the 
humility  to  grieve  at  their  own."^ 

It  is  clear  from  this  exposition  of  this  theory  that  Field- 
ing was  not  primarily  a  satirist;  he  makes  it  plain  that  he 
entertains  a  kindly  feeling  towards  the  weaknesses  of  hu- 
man nature.  Good  nature,  he  always  emphasized  as  a  ^ 
virtue — ^a  virtue  that  comprehended  all  the  others.  Every 
hypocrisy  and  sham  he  ridiculed  by  his  inimitable  wit  and 
humor,  but  declared  again  and  again  that  he  had  no  intent 
tion  to  vilify  any  one:  "I  defy  the  wisest  man  in  the  worl^ 
from  turning  a  true  good  action  into  ridicule,"  he  maki6s 
Joseph  Andrews  say.  / 

Fielding  believed  that  every  man  has  some  good  in  him- 
self. In  the  last  analysis,  "goodness  of  heart"  characterizes 
most  men;  hence  he  portrays  men  and  women  neither  total- 
ly good  nor  totally  bad.  Pure  satire  was  too  strong  for  him. 
Ridicule  would  better  enable  him  to  pass  over  the  weakness- 
es of  mankind,  and  to  regard  them  merely  as  weaknesses — 


1.  Preface  to  "Joseph  Andrews." 

2.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XHI,  Ch.  i. 


80  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

and  therefore,  not  as  proper  objects  of  ridicule.  His  obser- 
vation was  so  keen,  his  experience  so  broad,  that  he  could 
not  hold  up  one  man  to  the  contempt  of  a  small  circle;  but 
would  rather  hold  the  mirror  to  thousands  that  they  might 
see  their  deformity.  "For  pedantry  and  all  forms  of  hy- 
pocrisy," says  Professor  Metcalf,  "he  had  infinite  sarcasm, 
and  for  human  frailty  tolerant  sympathy."^ 

"What  he  did,"  Professor  Cross  remarks,  "was  to  ridi- 
cule— satirize  is  too  strong  a  word — fashionable  society  of 
his  own  day.  Wild  and  his  crew  were  really  the  beaus, 
\  politicians,  and  fine  ladies  of  questionable  reputation  of  the 
^  middle  and  upper  classes  from  whom  he  removed  the 
masque  of  convention  and  pretence.  When  their  motives 
were  laid  bare,  society  was  discovered  to  be  the  same  in  all 
ranks,  for  human  nature  is  everywhere  the  same.  Fielding 
stripped  his  fine  ladies  and  fine  gentlemen  of  their  language, 
and  let  them  give  vent,  as  they  no  doubt  often  did  in  private 
quarrels,  to  their  emotions  in  the  speech  of  Billingsgate."^ 

In  the  introductory  chapter  to  the  last  book  of  "Tom 
Jones,"  the  author  makes  this  leave-taking  declaration  to 
his  readers:  "And  now,  my  friends,  I  take  this  opportunity 
...  of  heartily  wishing  thee  well.  If  I  have  been  an  enter- 
taining companion  to  thee,  I  promise  thee  it  is  what  I  have 
desired.  If  in  anything  I  have  offended,  it  was  really  with- 
out my  intention.  Some  things,  perhaps,  here  said,  may 
have  hit  thee  or  thy  friends;  but  I  do  most  solemnly  declare 
they  were  not  pointed  at  thee  or  them."^ 

The  author  of  "Joseph  Andrews"  was  not  a  religious  en- 
thusiast, if  we  may  regard  Parson  Adams's  opinion  of 
\  r  Whitefield  in  chapter  eighteen  as  Fielding's  own;  but  of  all 
/  hypocritical  affectation,  perhaps  none  was  more  detestable 
to  him  than  that  of  virtue  and  religion.  His  wit  is  never 
more  cutting,  his  humor  never  more  glaring,  than  when  he 
artfully  shoves  Parson  Adams  into  the  pigsty  as  a  prelude 
to  the  expose  of  Parson  Trulliver's  hypocrisy.  The  simple 
Adams  had  no  thought  other  than  that  his  brother  of  the 
cloth  would  gladly  supply  him  with  the  needed  funds.  But 
here  was  Fielding's  chance  to  ridicule  one  of  the  most  pre- 


1.  J.  C.  Metcalf,  'Henry  Fielding,  Critic,'  "Sewanee  Review,"  XIX,  p.  145. 

2.  W,  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  HI,  pp.  264-265. 

3.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XVIU,  Ch.  i. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  81 

valent  of  all  affectations,  charity.  Instead  of  giving  Adams 
the  money  he  had  requested,  Trulliver  gave  the  parson  a 
sound  beating,  and  cast  him  out  of  his  house  under  pre-^ 
tense  of  his  being  a  robber.  Later,  however,  charity  came 
from  an  unexpected  source.  Fielding  found  in  the  world 
that  lack  of  charity  with  which  he  charged  Partridge. 
When  the  beggar  asked  alms,  Partridge  "gave  him  a  severe 
rebuke,  saying,  *every  parish  ought  to  keep  its  own  poor.' 
Jones  then  fell  a  laughing,  and  asked  Partridge  *if  he  was 
not  ashamed,  with  so  much  charity  in  his  mouth,  to  have  no 
charity  in  his  heart.'  'Your  religion,'  says  he,  'serves  you 
only  for  an  excuse  for  your  faults,  but  is  no  incentive  to 
your  virtue.'  "^ 

SmoUet's  use  of  satire  and  humor  differs  from  Field- 
ing's, in  that  it  is  bitterer.  The  reason  was,  it  seems,  that 
this  author  could  discover  but  few  of  the  sweets  of  life.  His 
humor  is  coarser  than  Fielding's,  too,  because  he  saw  not 
human  nature  in  the  broader  sense,  but  as  a  rather  restrict- 
ed group  of  men  and  women  whose  chief  characteristic  was 
their  eccentricity.  "Of  all  kinds  of  satire,"  he  says  in  one 
of  his  prefaces,  "there  is  none  so  entertaining  and  univer- 
sally improving,  as  that  which  is  introduced,  as  it  were,  oc- 
casionally, in  the  course  of  an  interesting  story,  which 
brings  every  incident  home  to  life."^ 

Sterne,  much  as  did  Fielding,  tried  to  reach  the  inner 
life  of  the  English  people  by  ridiculing  their  affectations. 
Sterne  struck  boldly  at  assumed  gravity:  "Yorick  had  an 
invincible  dislike  and  opposition  in  his  nature  to  gravity; — 
not  a  gravity  as  such;  for  where  gravity  was  wanted,  he 
would  be  the  most  grave  or  serious  of  mortal  men  for  days 
and  weeks  together;  but  he  was  an  enemy  to  the  affectation 
of  it,  and  declared  open  war  against  it,  only  as  it  appeared  a 
cloak  for  ignorance,  or  for  folly:  and  then,  whenever  it  fell 
in  his  way,  however  sheltered  and  protected,  he  seldom  gave 
it  much  quarter."^ 

Sterne  defines  gravity  thus:  The  "very  essence  of  grav- 
ity was  design,  and  consequently  deceit; — 'twas  a  taught 
trick  to  gain  credit  of  the  world  for  more  sense  and  knowl- 


1.  "Tom  Jones,*'  Bk.  XH,  Ch.  !▼. 

2.  Preface  to  ••Roderick  Random.* 

3.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  I.  Ch.  xi. 


X 


82  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

edge  than  a  man  was  worth;  and  that,  with  all  its  preten- 
sions,— it  was  no  better,  but  often  worse  than  what  a 
French  wit  had  long  ago  defined  it, — viz.  *A  mysterious  car- 
riage of  the  body  to  cover  the  defects  of  the  mind'; — which 
definition  of  gravity,  Yorick,with  greatest  imprudence, 
would  say,  deserved  to  be  wrote  in  letters  of  gold.*'^ 

Sterne's  humor  is  very  difficult  to  analyze.  To  surprise 
the  reader  with  the  least  expected  incidents  of  life  when  he 
least  expects  them,  seems  to  be  the  essence  of  his  theory. 
This  he  clearly  and  rather  forcibly  expressed  in  the  follow- 
ing: "What  these  perplexities  of  my  uncle  Toby  were, — 'tis 
impossible  for  you  to  guess: — if  you  could, — I  should  blush; 
not  as  a  relation — not  as  a  man, — not  even  as  a  woman, — 
but  I  should  blush  as  an  author;  inasmuch  as  I  set  so  small 
store  by  myself  upon  this  very  account,  that  my  reader  has 
never  yet  been  able  to  guess  anything:  and  in  this.  Sir,  I  am 
of  so  nice  and  singular  humor,  that  if  I  thought  you  was 
able  to  form  the  least  judgment,  or  probable  conjecture  to 
yourself  of  what  was  to  come  in  the  next  page, — I  would 
tear  it  out  of  my  book."^ 

But  the  author  of  "Tristram  Shandy"  was  concerned  not 
only  about  making  people  laugh  solely  for  the  sake  of  laugh- 
ing; he  was  concerned  quite  as  much  in  having  them  laugh 
at  the  conceit  of  others,  particularly  those  of  the  canting 
critics  of  his  time,  whom  he  no  doubt  detested  roundly.  The 
bitter  humor  in  chapter  twelve  of  the  third  book  of  "Tris- 
tram Shandy"  must  have  been  just  as  effective  at  correcting 
the  fetishism  of  Neo-Classic  canons,  as  was  Felding's  hu- 
mor and  ridicule  at  laughing  men  out  of  their  favorite  fol- 
lies and  vices.  "It  must  be  admitted,"  says  Professor 
Saintsbury,  "that  there  are  few  better  instances  of  the  com- 
bined sprightliness  and  ingenuity  of  Sterne's  humor.  *Be- 
fetiched  with  the  bobs  and  trinkets  of  criticism,  is  in  reality 
even  happier  than  the  *stop-watch,'  and  of  an  extraordinary 
propriety.  Though  he  did  *fetch  it  from  the  coast  of 
Guinea,'  nothing  was  even  less  far-fetched  or  more  home- 
driven.  The  'nothing  of  the  colouring  of  Titian'  is  equally 
happy  in  its  rebuke  of  the  singular  negativeness — the  atten- 


1.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  I,  Ch,  xi. 
?.  "Ibid.,*'  I.  Ch.  XXV. 


I 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  83 

tion  to  what  is  not  there,  not  to  what  is — of  Neo-Classicism; 
while  the  outburst,  again  world-known,  as  to  the  'torment- 
ing cant  of  criticism,'  and  the  ingenious  and  thoroughly 
English  application  of  this  cant  itself  to  the  eulogy  of  the 
curse  of  Ernulphus,  are  all  too  delightful,  and  have  been 
too  effective  for  good,  not  to  deserve  the  heartiest  acknowl- 
edgement."^ 

The  modern  reader  is  inclined  to  smile  at  Sterne's  dots, 
dashes,  and  asterisks;  his  blank,  and  his  marble  pages,  and 
other  absurdities;  but  the  author,  no  doubt,  laughed  in  his 
sleeve  at  them,  too.  All  of  this  and  more  was  clearly  a 
part  of  his  design  to  free  the  novel  in  form  and  in  content 
from  the  narrowing  conventionalities  of  Augustan  canons. 
He  characterizes  one  of  his  marble  pages  as  "the  motly  em- 
blem of  my  work."  Of  his  dots,  dashes,  blanks,  and  other 
curious  devices,  he  gives  the  following  explanation:  "As 
no  one,  who  knows  what  he  is  about  in  good  company, 
would  venture  to  talk  all; — so  no  author,  who  understands 
the  just  boundaries  of  decorum  and  good  breeding,  would 
presume  to  think  all;  the  truest  respect  which  you  can  pay 
to  the  reader's  understanding,  is  to  halve  this  matter  ami- 
cably, and  leave  him  something  to  imagine,  in  his  turn,  as 
well  as  yourself. 

"For  my  own  part,  I  am  eternally  paying  him  compli- 
ments of  this  kind,  and  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power  to  keep 
his  imagination  as  busy  as  my  own."^ 

"I  would  go  fifty  miles  afoot,"  he  declares,  "to  kiss  the 
hand  of  that  man  whose  generous  heart  will  give  up  the 
reigns  of  his  imagination  into  his  author's  hands, — be  pleas- 
ed he  knows  not  why,  and  cares  not  wherefore."  And,  as 
for  himself,  he  adds: 

"Great  Apollo !  if  thou  art  in  a  giving  humor, — give  me, 
— I  ask  no  more,  but  one  stroke  of  native  humor,  with  a 
single  spark  of  my  own  fire  along  with  it, — and  send  Mer- 
cury, with  the  rules  and  compasses,  if  he  can  be  spared, 
with  my  compliments  to, — no  matter."^ 

"Tristram  Shandy"  was  published  in  1759-67.  In  this 
curious  hodgepodge,  Sterne  consciously  tried  to  smask  ev- 


1.  George  Saintsbury,  "A  History  of  Criticism,"  TU,  p.  87. 

2.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  U,  Ch.  xl, 

3.  "Ibid.,"  Ill,  Ch.  xil. 


84  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

ery  literary  convention.  Fully  determined  to  tell  his  stories 
in  his  own  way,  he  says:  "Of  all  the  several  ways  of  begin- 
ning a  book  which  are  not  in  practice  throughout  the  known 
world,  I  am  confident  my  own  way  of  doing  it  is  the  best. 
Fm  sure  it  is  the  most  religious, — for  I  begin  with  writing 
the  first  sentence, — and  trusting  to  Almighty  God  for  the 
second."^ 

Why  he  thought  it  necessary  to  write  such  a  book,  he 
implies  in  the  following:  "In  a  word  my  work  is  digressive, 
and  it  is  progressive  too, — and  at  the  same  time." 

"This,  Sir,  is  a  very  different  story  from  that  of  the 
earth's  moving  around  her  axes  in  her  diurnal  rotation,  with 
her  progress  in  her  elliptic  orbit,  which  brings  about  the 
year,  and  constitutes  that  variety  and  vicissitude  of  seasons 
we  enjoy — though  I  own  it  suggested  the  thought, — as  I  be- 
lieve the  greatest  of  our  boasted  improvements  and  discov- 
eries have  come  from  such  trifling  hints. 

"Digressions,  incontestably,  are  the  sunshine; — they  are 
the  life,  and  soul  of  reading !  take  them  out  of  this  book,  for 
instance, — ^you  might  as  well  take  the  book  along  with 
them; — one  cold  eternal  winter  would  reign  in  every  page 
of  it:  restore  them  to  the  writer; — ^he  steps  forth  like  a 
bridge-groom,  bids  All-hail;  brings  in  a  variety  and  forbids 
the  appetite  to  fail."^ 

Ten  years  before  Sterne's  work,  Smollett's  "Roderick 
Random"  and  Fielding's  "Tom  Jones"  show  unmistakable 
evidences  of  dissatisfaction  with  Neo-Classic  canons  of 
criticism.  "Reader,  I  think  proper,  before  we  proceed  any 
farther  together,"  says  Fielding,  "to  acquaint  thee  that  I  in- 
tend to  digress,  through  this  whole  history,  as  often  as  I  see 
occasion,  of  which  I  am  myself  a  better  judge  than  any 
pitiful  critic  whatever;  and  here  I  must  desire  all  those 
critics  to  mind  their  own  business,  and  not  to  intermeddle 
with  affairs  or  works  which  no  ways  concern  them;  for  till 
they  produce  the  authority  by  which  they  are  constituted 
judges,  I  shall  not  plead  to  their  jurisdiction."^ 

Both  Richardson  and  Fielding,  however,  were,  in  gen- 


1.  "Tristram  Shandy,'*  VIU,  Ch.  11. 

2.  "Ibid.,"  I,  Ch.  xxil. 

3.  "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  I.  Ch.  11. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  85 

eral,  in  sympathy  with  the  Classicists'  rules  of  restraint. 
They  tried  to  be  real,  to  be  sane,  and  to  restrain  the  imagi- 
nation. Naturally  by  1765  readers  had  grown  somewhat 
tired  of  Richardson's  minute  analysis  of  character  and  emo- 
tions; and  they  were  not  a  little  weary  of  the  everlasting 
exposure  and  ridicule  of  the  common  concerns  of  every-day 
life.  Reaction  was  inevitable.  The  third  quarter  of  the 
century  reveals  an  inclination,  on  the  part  of  authors  and 
readers,  to  turn  their  backs  on  realities,  and  return  to  magic, 
mystery,  and  chivalry. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  "GOTHIC"  NOVEL  AND  ROMANTICISM 

Authors  began  turning  toward  the  Middle  Ages,  with  re- 
newed interest  in  Chivalry  and  in  things  mediaeval,  during 
the  fifth  decade  of  the  century.  But  the  first  open  revolt  in 
opposition  to  the  pronounced  hatred  of  the  "Gothic"  in  lit- 
erature and  art  was  in  1764  when  Horace  Walpole  publish- 
ed his  "Castle  of  Otranto,"  the  first  novel  after  the  new  fash- 
ion. Concerning  this  innovation  in  literary  art,  Walpole 
wrote  to  Monsieur  de  Beaumont,  March  18, 1765: 

"When  I  had  the  honor  of  seeing  you  here,  I  believe 
I  told  you  that  I  had  written  a  novel,  in  which  I  was 
flattered  to  find  that  I  had  touched  an  effusion  of  the 
heart  in  a  manner  similar  to  a  passage  in  the  charming 
letters  of  Marquis  de  Roselle.  I  have  since  that  time 
published  my  little  story,  but  was  so  diffident  of  its 
merits,  that  I  gave  it  as  a  translation  from  the  Italian. 
Still  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  offer  it  to  so  great 
a  mistress  of  that  passion  as  Madam  de  Beaumont,  if 
the  approbation  of  London,  that  is,  of  a  country  to 
which  she  and  you.  Sir,  are  so  good  as  to  be  partial,  had 
not  encouraged  me  to  send  it  to  you.  After  I  have 
talked  of  the  passions,  and  the  natural  effusions  of  the 
heart,  how  will  you  be  surprised  to  find  a  narrative  of 
the  most  improbable  and  absurd  adventures!  How 
will  you  be  amazed  to  hear  that  a  country  of  whose 
good  sense  you  have  an  opinion  should  have  applauded 
so  wild  a  tale!  But  you  must  remember.  Sir,  that 
whatever  good  sense  we  have,  we  are  not  yet  in  any 
light  chained  down  to  precepts  and  inviolable  laws.  .  .  . 
You  will  not,  I  hope,  think  I  apply  these  mighty  names 
(Aristotle,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and  Addison)  to  my 
own  case  with  vanity,  when  it  is  only  their  enormities 
that  I  quote,  and  that  in  defence,  not  of  myself,  but  of 
my  countrymen,  who  have  had  good  humor  enough  to 
approve  the  visonary  scenes  and  actors  in  "The  Castle 
of  Otranto." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  it  was  not  so  much  my  in- 
tention to  recall  the  exploded  marvels  of  ancient  ro- 
mance, as  to  blend  the  wonderful  of  old  stories  with 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  87 

the  natural  of  modern  novels.  The  world  is  apt  to 
wear  out  any  plan  whatever.  ,  .  Madame  de  Beaumont 
must  forgive  me  if  I  add,  that  Richardson  had,  to  me 
at  least  made  that  kind  of  writing  unsupportable.  I 
thought  the  *nodus'  was  become  'dingus  vindice,'  and 
that  a  god,  at  least  a  ghost,  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
frighten  us  out  of  too  much  sense.  .  "^ 

Macaulay's  judgment  of  Walpole  was  that  "in  every- 
thing in  which  he  busied  himself — in  the  fine  arts,  in  liter- 
ature, in  public  affairs — he  was  drawn  by  some  strange  at- 
traction from  the  great  to  the  little,  and  from  the  useful  to 
the  odd.  .  .2"  Certainly  the  oddities  of  "The  Castle  of  Otran- 
to"  must  be  apparent  to  any  one  who  compares  the  content 
and  the  structure  of  this  novel  with  that  of  its  predecessors, 
"Clarissa  Harlowe"  and  "Tom  Jones."  But  the  author's  in- 
tention was,  he  said,  "to  blend  the  wonderful  of  the  old 
(romantic)  stories  with  the  natural  of  the  modern  novels." 
This  inovation  he  tried  to  effect  regardless  of  whether  or 
not  he  knew  thoroughly  the  spirit  of  the  times  he  desired 
to  bring  back.  The  result  was  a  novel  that  proved  to  be 
neither  romantic  nor  reahstic.  It  is,  therefore,  when  we 
consider  this  book  as  the  first  conscious  attempt  to  intro- 
duce the  life  of  the  Middle  Ages  into  the  new  type  of  prose 
narrative,  and  thus  make  due  allowance  for  the  author's 
extravagances,  that  its  oddities  lose  much  of  their  annoying 
and  distracting  tendencies. 

"A  reactionary  movement,"  says  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen, 
"may  gain  some  strength  from  the  theories  to  which  it  is  op- 
posed; for  thought  generally  progresses  by  antagonism."^ 
Walpole  was  antagonistic.  He  was  reactionary  against  the 
accepted  canons  of  his  day,  but  he  never  fully  disregarded 
them.  To  blend  the  wonderful  of  the  old  with  the  natural 
of  the  new,  was  his  announced  purpose.  But  "romanti- 
cism," says  Professor  Stoddard,  "is  born  of  dissatisfaction 
with  the  canons  of  authority;  it  constantly  and  consciously 
searches  for  a  new  law  in  place  of  that  which  was  ruled."* 
The  return  to  romanticism  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  therefore,  was  due  chiefly  to  existing  dissatisfao- 


1.  Cunningham,  "Letters  of  Horace  Walpole,"  IV,  Letter  No.  971. 

2.  Macaulay's  Works.    "Critical  and  Historical  Essays,"  VI.  pp.  2-3. 

3.  Leslie  Stephen,  "History  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century/ 
II    D.  434. 

4.  F.  H.'  Stoddard,  "Evolution  of  the  English  Novel,**  p.  130. 


88  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

tion  with  Augustan  thought  and  manner  of  expression.  In 
fiction,  this  dissatisfaction  was  voiced  mainly  through  the 
so-called  "Gothic"  novel,  which  began  with  Walpole's 
"Castle  of  Otranto,"  1764. 

It  is  the  purpose  of  this  chapter  to  study  the  "Gothic" 
novel  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  with  the 
view  to  determine  its  relation  to  English  Romanticism,  and 
to  point  out  in  what  manner  and  to  what  extent  it  may  have 
affected  the  life  and  thought  of  the  time. 

From  Thales  of  Miletus  to  Herbert  Spencer  is  a  long 
way,  but  the  current  of  thought  is  continuous.  Man  is  ever 
striving  toward  a  more  perfect  conception  and  realization 
of  the  true,  the  beautiful,  and  the  good.  But  the  history  of 
philosophy  shows  plainly  that  between  one  period  of  time 
and  another  of  world  progress,  there  are  lines  of  demarka- 
tion,  and  that  the  divergences  and  differences  are  due  to 
change  of  thought.  When  Tennyson  wrote,  "Watch  what 
main-currents  draw  the  years,"  he  was  doubtless  inviting 
us  to  cast  a  retrospective  glance  overe  preceding  ages  and  to 
observe  how  great  systems  of  thought  have  given  way  be- 
fore the  onrushing  tide  of  greater  and  stronger  ones.  The 
stronger  force,  slowly  thrusting  back  its  head-waters  like  a 
great  river  system,  taps  what  was  formerly  the  main  stream, 
and  thus  it  diverts  the  shallow  current  from  the  weaker  one 
into  its  own  channel.  The  pirate  steals  in  upon  its  prey  un- 
til it  perforates  the  conduit,  and  leaves  the  bed  of  the  old 
stream  high  and  dry. 

We  are  reminded  of  similar  processes  in  the  streams  of 
thought  that  have  crystallized  into  hterature;  and  there  are 
no  better  instances  of  this  than  Classicism  and  Romanti- 
cism throughout  the  last  half  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
On  the  one  hand  was  the  seemingly  non  resistent,  self  con- 
scious pseudo-classicism,  with  its  intellectuality  and  its  en- 
thronement of  reason;  its  repressed  personal  emotion, 
and  its  restrained  imagination.  Adherents  of  this  system 
of  thought  were  often  conscious  imitators,  and  therefore 
much  of  their  polished  wit  and  satire  had  but  little  inter- 
est beyond  the  writer's  day  and  age.  Opposed  to  eigh- 
teenth-century classicism,  was  the  romantic  movement,  un- 
conscious, subjective,  full  of  the  passion  and  inspiration  of 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  89 

the  individual.  The  imagination,  left  free  and  unrestrained 
to  determine  what  the  content  and  the  tone  should  be,  made_ 
it  relatively  certain  that  the  best  literature  inspired  by  this 
vital  force  would  be  for  all  time.  Gradually  but  surely 
wearing  its  way  beneath  the  old  system  of  thought,  by  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century  romanticism  had  tapped  the 
main-current  of  pseudo-classicism,  and  had  turned  the  stag- 
nant Augustan  waters  from  their  even  channel.  Thus  "the 
dry  bones  of  classicism"  were  left  to  crumble  and  decay 
upon  the  peneplain  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

If  we  attempt  to  define  romanticism,  we  very  soon  learn 
that  our  efforts  are  futile.  It  is  too  broad  and  too  compre- 
hensive for  limitation,  and  too  inclusive  for  classification. 
Analysis  of  several  attempts  to  define  the  movement  will 
convince  us  that  the  lawyer's  clerk  was  right  when  he  said, 
"Romanticism,  my  dear  sir!  No,  of  a  surety  it  is  neither 
the  disregard  of  the  unities,  nor  the  alliance  of  the  comic 
and  tragic,  nor  anything  in  the  world  expressible  by 
words."!  But  of  course  attempts  to  define  it  have  been 
made. 

Professor  Hedge  reminds  us  that  we  speak  of  romantic 
characters,  romantic  situations,  romantic  scenery,  and  then 
asks  what  we  mean  by  this  expression.  His  reply  is,  "Some- 
thing very  subtle,  undefinable,  but  felt  by  all.  K  we  ana- 
lyze the  feeling  we  shall  find,"  he  thinks,  "that  it  has  its  ori- 
gin in  wonder  and  mystery.  It  is  the  sense  of  something 
hidden,  of  imperfect  revelation."  He  then  apphes  the 
meaning  of  the  term  to  scenery:  "The  woody  dell,  the  leafy 
glen,  the  forest  path  which  leads  one  knows  not  whither, 
are  romantic;  but  the  public  highway  is  not.  Moonlight  is 
romantic  as  contrasted  with  dayhght.  The  winding  secret 
brook,  'old  as  the  hills  that  feed  it  from  afar,'  is  romantic 
as  compared  with  the  broad  river  roUing  through  level 
banks."2 

Victor  Hugo  called  it  "liberalism  in  literature."  Some 
have  long  ago  concluded  that  the  "essence  of  romanticism 
is  individuahsm";  and  still  others  are  quite  certain  that  "ro- 


1.  See  H.  A.  Beers,  "A  History  of  English  Romanticism  In  the  Eighteenth 
Century,"  pp.  20-21. 

2.  Frederic  Henry  Hedge,  'Classic  and  Romantic,*  "Atlantic  Monthly,**  March, 


90  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

manticism  is  the  alliance  of  the  playful  and  serious,  of  the 
grotesque  and  the  terrible,  of  the  jocose  and  the  horrible."* 
"The  essence  of  romanticism  is  the  freedom  of  the  indi- 
vidual," says  Professor  Stoddard.  "The  method  of  ro- 
manticism," he  says,  "is  a  departure  from  the  contempo- 
raneous. .  .  .  Romanticism  departs,  from  the  ordinary, 
from  the  accepted,  from  the  contemporaneous,  from  the 
probable,  from  the  reasonable."^  And  lastly.  Professor 
Beers  bases  his  "History  of  English  Romanticism"  on  the 
thesis,  that  "romanticism  is  the  reproduction  in  modern  art 
or  literature  of  the  life  and  thought  of  the  Middle  Ages."^ 

Each  definition  is  inadequate  and  unsatisfactory.  The 
reason  is  clear:  but  one  phase  of  the  movement  is  included. 
If  by  some  process  of  compounding  all  could  be  fused  into 
one  definition,  we  might  be  induced  to  accept  it.  In  the 
meantime,  we  must  be  content  to  analyze  and  expound  the 
chief  characteristics  of  the  movement — particularly  such  as 
appear  to  have  been  constructive  forces  in  the  development 
of  the  novel. 

"The  beginning  and  presence  of  a  creative,  romantic 
movement,"  says  Professor  McClintock,  "is  almost  always 
shown  by  the  love,  study,  and  interpretation  of  physical 
nature."* 

"It  was  one  of  Emily's  earliest  pleasures  to  ramble 
among  the  scenes  of  nature;  nor  was  it  in  the  soft  and  glow- 
ing landscape  that  she  most  delighted;  she  loved  more  the 
wild  wood- walks  that  skirted  the  mountains;  and  still  more 
the  mountain's  stupendous  recesses,  where  the  silence  and 
gradeur  of  solitude  impressed  a  sacred  awe  upon  her  heart, 
and  lifted  her  thoughts  to  the  God  of  Heaven  and  Earth."* 

In  sharp  contrast  to  pseudo-classicism,  which  had  con- 
fined itself  to  clubs,  to  coffee  houses,  and  to  drawing  rooms, 
the  spirit  of  romanticism  sent  man  back  to  the  heart  of 
nature  for  his  inspiration. 


1.  For  a  compilation  of  expressions  in  answer  to  the  question,  '"What  Is 
Romanticism?"  and  for  a  brief  but  concise  and  helpful  analysis  of  these 
deflnitions,  see  Professor  W.  L.  Phelps's  Introduction  in  his  remarkable 
little  boolc,  "The  Beginnings  of  the  English  Romantic  Movement." 

2.  F.  H.  Stoddard,  "Evolution  of  the  English  Novel,"  p.  131. 

3.  H.  A.  Beers,  "A  History  of  English  Romanticism  in  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury," p.  2. 

4.  Quoted  in  H.  A.  Beers's,  "History  of  English  Romanticism  In  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century,"  p.  102.  ^^ 

5.  **The  Mysteries  of  Udolpbo,**  Gh.  1. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  91 

"Poverty.  .  .  cannot  deaden  our  taste  for  the  grand  and 
the  beautiful,"  Emily  contended,  "nor  deny  us  the  means  of 
indulging  it;  for  the  scenes  of  nature — those  sublime  spec- 
tacles, so  infinitely  superior  to  all  artificial  luxuries — are 
open  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich.  .  . 
We  retain,  then,  the  subhme  luxuries  of  nature,  and  lose 
only  the  frivolous  ones  of  art."i 

"With  a  small  osier  basket  to  receive  plants,  and  an- 
other filled  with  cold  refreshments, .  . .  they  wandered  away 
among  the  most  romantic  and  magnificent  scenes,  nor  suf- 
fered the  charms  of  Nature's  lovely  children  to  abstract 
them  from  the  observance  of  her  stupendous  works."^ 

The  limitations  imposed  upon  the  imagination  and  the 
emotions  by  strict  adherence  to  Augustan  rules,  no  doubt 
made  many  a  sincere  heart  feel  toward  this  unnatural 
bondage  of  the  city  much  as  did  St.  Aubert,  who  "retired 
from  the  multitude,  but  more  in  pity  than  in  anger,  to  the 
scenes  of  simple  nature."^ 

The  true  spirit  of  romanticism  reinstated  the  common 
man  to  his  rightful  place  in  life  and  in  literature.  This  was 
due,  in  large  measure,  to  a  better  understanding  of  the  hu- 
man heart,  together  with  a  purer  human  sympathy.  Pope, 
the  greatest  of  the  Augustans,  spent  valuable  time  in  writ- 
ing an  extensive  poem  that  depicted  well  enough  the  social 
foibles  and  idle  vanities  of  his  day,  but  he  found  no  time  for 
thought  of,  and  little  sympathy  for,  the  man  on  the  lower 
terraces  of  life.  When  the  court  fop.  Lord  Petre,  snipped  a 
lock  of  hair  from  the  flowing  curls  of  a  pretty  maid  of 
honor  named  Arabella  Fermor,  the  two  families  were 
plunged  into  a  quarrel.  So  important  was  this  trival  in- 
cident and  so  terrific  the  petty  clash,  that  it  provided  the 
motivating  element  and  much  of  the  material  for  a  mock 
heroic-epic;  but  the  poet  would  not  throw  open  the  blinds 
of  the  drawing-room  long  enough  to  see  the  servant  Caleb 
Williams  struggling  to  rid  himself  of  repressive  social  con- 
ventions. Addison  delighted  polite  society  but  had  no 
cheering  message  for  plain  people.  Swift's  work  was 
frightful  satire.     Even  Johnson,  with  all  his  kindness,  had 


1.  **The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,*'  Oh.  vi. 

2.  "ttid.,"  Ch.  L 


92  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

little  feeling  for  the  masses  of  mankind.  "Our  proper  bliss 
depends  upon  what  we  blame,"  Pope  taught  his  age  to 
think.  If  the  common  man  is  down,  kick  him;  if  he  is  up, 
trudging  but  slowly  along,  hold  him  in  full  view  that  the 
world  may  ridicule  his  weakness  and  his  failures.  Such  was 
the  attitude  towards  the  common  man  that  prevailed  during 
the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

\  "My  heart  is  pained 

My  soul  is  sick  witli  every  day's  report 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  whicli  earth  is  filled. 

There  is  no  flesh  in  Man's  obdurate  heart. 

It  does  not  feel  for  man." 

Thus  Cowper  testified  to  the  spiritual  aloofness  of  his  day. 

Caleb  Williams  concludes  the  narrative  of  his  misfor- 
tunes, and  fixes  the  blame:  "The  greatest  aggravation  of 
my  present  lot  was,  that  I  was  cut  off  from  the  friendship  of 
mankind.  I  can  safely  affirm,  that  poverty  and  hunger, 
that  endless  wanderings,  that  a  blasted  character  and  the 
curses  that  clung  to  my  name,  were  all  of  them  slight  mis- 
fortunes compared  to  this.  I  endeavored  to  sustain  myself 
by  the  sense  of  my  integrity,  but  the  voice  of  no  man  upon 
earth  echoed  to  the  voice  of  my  conscience.  'I  called  aloud; 
but  there  was  none  to  answer;  there  was  none  that  regard- 
ed.* To  me  the  whole  world  was  unhearing  as  the  tempest, 
and  as  cold  as  the  torpedo.  Sympathy,  the  magnetic  virtue, 
the  hidden  essence  of  our  life,  was  extinct."* 

Near  the  close  of  the  century,  Collins,  the  amiable 
youth  who  may  be  regarded  as  a  mouthpiece  for  Godwin's 
theory,  says,  "It  is  more  necessary  for  me  to  feel  compas- 
sion for  you,  than  that  I  should  accumulate  your  misfor- 
tune by  my  censures."^ 

The  spirit  of  romanticism  could  not  long  tolerate  such 
apathy  for  the  masses,  and,  therefore,  by  the  middle  of  the 
century,  the  new  movement  had  stimulated  such  compo- 
sitions as  Gray's  "short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor,"  and 
Goldsmith's  "Deserted  Village."  Once  started,  there  was 
no  cessation.  On  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  it  culminated  in 
the  dictum,  "All  men  are  created  equal";  and  a  little  later 
on  the  other  side,  in  "A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that." 


1.  «*Caleb  Williams,*'  H,  Ch.  xlv. 

2.  "Ibid.,**  n,  Ch.  xlv. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  93 

Again,  the  romantic  revival  is  marked  by  renewed  inter- 
est in  things  mediaeval — mediaeval  ideals,  materials,  and 
literature.  "In  the  eighteenth  century,  the  despised  ages  of 
monkery,  feudalism,  and  superstition  began  to  reassert 
their  claims  upon  the  imagination.  Ruined  castles  and  ab- 
beys, coats  of  mail,  illuminated  missals,  manuscript  ro- 
mances, black-letter  ballads,  old  tapestries,  and  wood  carv- 
ings acquired  a  new  value.  Antiquaries  and  virtuosos  first, 
and  then  poets  and  romancers,  reconstructed  in  turn  an 
image  of  mediaeval  society."^  By  turning  to  the  Middle 
Ages  for  inspiration,  the  romanticists  rediscovered  and  uti- 
lized much  valuable  literary  material  long  since  forgot. 
Haunted  castles  and  monasteries  enveloped  within  an  at- 
mosphere of  superstition,  strangeness,  and  mystery,  and 
peopled  with  knights,  tyrants,  and  giants  endowed  with 
every  form  of  necromancy — these  were  some  of  the  ma- 
terials dug  out  of  the  Middle  Ages  intended  to  arouse  the 
emotions,  and  to  give  free  rein  to  the  fancy  and  to  the  im- 
agination. 

The  novel  shows  a  marked  tendency  to  continue 
throughout  th  century  the  vein  of  realism  begun  by  Rich- 
ardson and  Fielding  in  the  portrayal  of  contemporary  life 
and  manners.  But  fiction  at  no  time  entirely  escaped  the 
effect  of  the  romantic  movement.  There  appears  at  least 
to  be  an  occasional  change  of  mood  even  before  the  middle 
of  the  century;  soon  after,  the  novel  is  caught  in  the  current 
and  swept  in  the  direction  of  romanticism. 

Nature — wild  and  rugged  mountain  scenery  and  land- 
scape painting — has  a  fixed  place,  af er  Walpole,  in  this  new 
type  of  fiction.  "It  is  only  within  a  few  years,"  wrote 
Joseph  Wharton,  1782,  "that  the  picturesque  scenes  of  our 
country,  our  lakes,  mountains,  caverns,  and  castles  have 
been  visited  and  described."  Although  Mrs.  Radcliffe  (in 
1794)  had  never  seen  the  mountains  that  she  described  so 
vividly  in  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  her  wonderful  im- 
aginative descriptions  convince  us  of  the  movement  which 
sent  man  from  cities  and  drawing-rooms  to  enjoy  God's 
great  out-of-doors.  She  takes  care  to  fix  the  setting  in  the 
very  heart  of  nature: 


1.  H.  A.  Beers,  "  A  History  of  English  Romanticism  in  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury," p.  30. 


94  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"On  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Garonne,  in  the  prov- 
ince of  Gascony,  stood,  in  the  year  1584,  the  chateau  of 
Monsieur  St.  Aubert.  From  its  windows  were  seen 
the  pastoral  landscape  of  Guienne  and  Gascony 
stretched  along  the  river,  gay  with  luxuriant  woods 
and  vines  and  plantation  of  olives.  To  the  south,  the 
view  was  bounded  by  the  majestic  Pyrenees,  whose 
summits,  veiled  in  clouds,  or  exhibiting  awful  forms, 
seen,  and  lost  again  as  the  partial  vapors  rolled  along, 
were  sometimes  barren,  and  gleamed  through  the  blue 
tinges  of  air,  downward  to  their  base.  These  tremen- 
dous precipices  were  contrasted  by  the  soft  green  pas- 
tures, and  the  woods  that  hung  upon  their  skirts; 
among  whose  locks,  and  herds,  the  simple  cottages,  the 
eye,  after  having  scaled  the  cliffs  above,  delighted  to 
repose.  To  the  north,  and  to  the  east,  the  plains  of 
Guienne  and  Languedoc  was  bounded  by  the  waters 
of  Biscay."! 
Refreshing  sketches  like  the  following  meet  the  reader 
on  every  page: 

"Little  woody  recesses  appeared  among  the  moun- 
tains, covered  with  bright  verdure  and  flowers  or  a  pas- 
toral valley  opened  its  grassy  bosom  in  the  shade  of  the 
cliffs,  with  flocks  and  herds  loitering  along  the  banks 
of  a  rivulet  that  refreshed  its  perpetual  green." 
Mrs.  Radcliffe's  landscape  paintings  are  clearly  deco- 
rative; they  are  not  essential  to  the  whole.     She  does  not 
succeed  in  making  plot  and  background  blend  harmonious- 
ly.    Too  frequent  occurrence  of  similar  sketches  retards 
the  action  greatly.     When  the  reader  must  visualize  such 
lavish  scenery  on  almost  every  page,  he  becomes  sensible 
of  the  fact  that  the  movement  of  the  plot  is  losing  momen- 
tum.    Nor  is  he  surprised  to  find  that  her  pigments  are 
soon  diluted  with  soft  emotionalism,  an  emotionalism  which 
closely  resembles  mere  sentimentalism :     Emily,  she  says, 
"often  looked  through  her  tears  upon  the  grandeur  of  the 
Pyrenees.  .  ."  And  again,  "the  scenes  through  which  they 
now  passed  were  as  wild  and  romantic  as  any  they  had  yet 
observed — with  this  difference,  that  beauty,  every  now  and 
then,  softened  the  landscape  into  smiles."^ 

Smollett's  "Humphrey  Clinker"  was  published  in  1771. 
Matthew  Bramble's  portrayal  of  Lock  Lomond  in  this  book 


1.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch. 

2.  "Ibid." 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  95 

is  one  of  the  many  excellent  out-of-doors  pictures  that  adorn 
the  pages  of  this  novel: 

"I  have  seen  the  Largo  di  Gari,  Albano,  De  Vico, 
Bolsena,  and  Geneva,  and,  upon  my  honor,  I  prefer 
Lough-Lomond  to  them  all;  a  preference  which  is  cer- 
tainly owing  to  the  verdant  islands  that  seem  to  float 
upon  its  surface,  affording  the  most  enchanting  ob- 
jects of  repose  to  the  excursive  view.  Nor  are  the 
banks  destitute  of  beauties,  which  even  partake  of  the 
sublime.  On  this  side  they  display  a  sweet  variety  of 
woodland,  cornfield,  and  pasture,  with  several  agree- 
able villas  emerging  as  it  were  out  of  the  lake,  till,  at 
some  distance,  the  prospect  terminates  in  huge  moun- 
tains covered  with  heath,  which  being  in  the  bloom 
affords  a  very  rich  covering  of  purple.  Eeverything 
here  is  romantic  beyond  imagination.  .  .  What  say  you 
to  a  natural  basin  of  pure  water,  near  thirty  miles  long, 
and  some  places  nearly  seven  miles  broad,  and  many 
above  a  hundred  fathoms  deep,  having  four-and- 
twenty  habitable  islands,  some  of  them  stocked  with 
deer,  and  all  of  them  covered  with  wood;  containing 
immense  quantities  of  delicious  fish,  salmon,  pike, 
trout,  perch,  flounders,  eels,  and  powans,  the  last  a 
delicate  kind  of  fresh  water  herring  peculiar  to  this 
lake;  and  finally,  communicating  with  the  sea,  by  send- 
ing off  the  leaven  through  which  all  those  species  (ex- 
cept the  powan),  make  their  exit  and  entrance  oc- 
casionally ! 

"There  is  an  idea  of  truth,  in  an  agreeable  land- 
scape taken  from  nature,  which  pleases  me  more  than 
the  gayest  fiction  which  the  most  luxuriant  fancy  can 
display."^ 

"To  return  to  nature  is,  in  one  sense,  to  find  a  new  ex- 
pression for  emotions  which  have  been  repressed  by  existing 
conventions."^  Gothic  fiction,  by  transplanting  her  char- 
acters into  suitable  environments,  gave  every  opportunity 
for  excitation  and  expression  of  the  deeper  feelings.  The 
author  of  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho"  would  have  her 
readers  know  that, 

"To  him  who  in  love  of  nature  holds  Communion  with 
her  visible  forms,  she  speaks  a  various  language." 


1.  "Humphrey  Clinker,"  p.  261. 

2.  Leslie  Stephen,  "History  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century," 
p.  447. 


96  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

The  "still  voice"  that  comes  from  nature's  teachings  in- 
spires the  mind  and  touches  the  emotions: 

"The  evening  gloom  of  woods  was  always  delight- 
ful to  me,  said  St.  Aubert,  whose  mind  now  experienced 
the  sweet  calm  which  results  from  the  consciousness  of 
having  done  a  beneficent  action,  and  which  disposes  it 
to  receive  pleasure  from  every  surrounding  object.  I 
remember  that  in  my  youth  this  gloom  used  to  call 
forth  to  my  fancy  a  thousand  fairy  visions  and  roman- 
tic images;  and  I  own  I  am  not  yet  wholly  insensible  to 
that  high  enthusiasm  which  wakes  the  poet's  dream.  1 
can  linger  with  solemn  steps,  under  the  deep  shades, 
send  forward  a  transforming  eye  into  the  distant  ob- 
scurity, and  listen  with  thrilling  delight  to  the  mystic 
murmuring  of  the  woods."^ 

"The  dawn,  which  softened  the  scenery  with  its 
peculiar  gray  tint,  now  dispersed,  and  Emily  watched 
the  progress  of  the  day,  first  trembling  on  the  tops  of 
the  highest  cliffs,  then  touching  them  with  splendid 
light,  while  their  sides  and  the  vale  below  were  still 
wrapped  in  dewy  mist.  Meanwhile  the  sullen  gray 
of  eastern  clouds  began  to  blush,  then  to  redden,  and 
then  to  glow  with  a  thousand  colors,  til  the  golden 
light  darted  over  all  the  air,  touched  the  lower  points 
of  the  mountain's  brow,  and  glanced  in  long  sloping 
beams  upon  the  valley  and  its  stream.  All  nature 
seemed  to  have  awakened  from  death  into  life.  The 
spirit  of  St.  Aubert  was  renovated.  His  heart  was  full; 
he  wept,  and  his  thoughts  ascended  to  the  great  Cre- 
ator. 

"Emily  wished  to  trip  along  the  turf,  so  green,  and 
bright  with  dew,  and  to  taste  the  full  delight  of  the 
liberty  which  the  izard  seemed  to  enjoy  as  he  bounded 
along  the  brow  of  the  cliffs;  while  Valancourt  often 
stopped  to  speak  with  the  travellers;  and  with  social 
feeling  to  point  out  to  them  the  peculiar  objects  of  his 
admiration.  St.  Aubert  was  pleased  with  him:  Here 
is  the  real  ingeniousness  and  ardor  of  youth,  said  he  to 
himself;  this  young  man  has  never  been  at  Paris."^ 

"Around,  on  every  side,  far  as  the  eye  could  pene- 
trate, were  seen  only  in  forms  of  grandeur — the  long 
perspective  of  mountain  tops,  tinged  with  the  ethereal 
blue,  or  white  with  snow;  valleys  of  ice  and  forests  of 
gloomy  fir.     The  serenity  and  clearness  of  the  air  in 


1.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  iv. 

2.  "Ibid." 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  ^7 

these  high  regions,  were  particularly  delightful  to 
travellers;  it  seemed  to  inspire  them  with  a  finer  spirit, 
and  diffused  indiscribable  complacency  in  their  minds. 
They  had  no  words  to  express  the  sublime  emotions 
they  felt." 

"While  the  distant  perspective  of  the  valley  was  lail^ 
in  the  yellow  mist  of  moon-light,  the  travellers  sat  for 
some  time  wrapped  in  the  complacency  which  such 
scenes  inspire. 

"These  scenes,  said  Valancourt,  at  length,  soften 
the  heart  like  the  note  of  sweet  music,  and  inspire  that 
delicious  melancholy,  which  no  person,  who  has  felt 
it  once,  would  resign  for  the  gayest  of  pleasures.    They 
awaken  our  best  and  purest  feelings,  disposing  us  to 
benevolence,  pity,  and  friendship.      Those    whom    I 
love,  I  always  seem  to  love  more  in  such  an  hour  as 
this.     His  voice  trembled  and  he  paused."^ 
It  is  evident,  of  course,  that  there  is  very  little  sincerity 
in  these  soliloquies  about  nature.    But  Mrs.  Radcliffe  is  a 
conscious  romanticist,  or  at  least  she  is  a  conscious  reac- 
tionary against  the  city  life  and  drawing-room  of  London 
society.    "Back  to  nature"  was  the  cry  of  romanticism;  be 
"free  in  God's  great  out-of-doors"  was  its  motto.    Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe, a  very  great  enthusiast,  did  her  best,  but  in  her  ex- 
uberancy she  failed  to  grasp  the  deeper  significance  of  the 
movement.    Instead  of  real  poetic  mountains  that  breathe 
inspiration,  she  creates  artificial  mountains  that  breathe  un- 
animating  sentimentalism.     Her  head  was  in  the  move- 
ment, however,  if  her  soul  was  not.     Her  works  reveal  the 
author's  earnest  desire  to  lead  mankind  back  to  genuine 
appreciation  of  nature. 

The  nature  movement  was  manifested  in  part  by  a  de- 
sire for  travel.  As  the  revival  of  life  in  the  springtime  after 
the  long  dreary  winter  made  "folks  longen  to  goon  on  pil- 
grimages," so  the  revival  of  romantic  springtime  after  the 
blighting  winters  of  pseudo-classicism  created  an  insatiable 
desire  to  roam  "from  hill  to  hill,  from  rock  to  rock,  crav- 
ing combinations  of  new  forms."  The  urban  Doctor  John- 
son said  to  Boswell  in  1763:  "Sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the  noblest 
prospects  which  a  Scotchman  ever  sees,  is  the  highroad  that 
leads  to  England";  but  Thomas  Gray,  who  traveled  through 
the  Scotch  Highlands,  advised  a  pilgrimage  there  at  least 

1.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  iv. 


98  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

once  each  year.  No  type  of  literature  was  better  adapted 
to  express  this  phase  of  the  romantic  movement  during  the 
reactionary  period,  than  fiction;  and  none  was  seized  upon 
more  zealously  for  this  purpose  than  was  the  Gothic  novel. 
Sending  the  travelers  on  a  perilous  journey  over  a  road  in- 
fested with  robbers  and  banditti,  was  the  favorite  scheme  of 
many  authors. 

Even  though  the  public  highway  was  romantic,  which 
Dr.  Hedges  asserts  was  not  the  case,  Fielding's  characters 
certainly  manifested  no  displeasure  at  being  on  the  road  to- 
ward London.  But  even  before  "Tom  Jones,"  in  "Joseph 
Andrews,"  "Fielding  enters  upon  the  great  epic  of  the 
road.  .  ."^  Smollett's  Matthew  Bramble  is  a  chronic  suffer- 
er from  the  gout.  Acting  upon  the  advice  of  his  physician, 
he  takes  an  extensive  tour  through  England  and  Scotland. 

"The  ruggedness  of  the  unfrequented  road  often 
obliged  the  wanderers  to  alight  from  their  little  car- 
riage; but  they  though  themselves  amply  paid  for  this 
inconvenience  by  the  grandeur  of  the  scenes. .  ."^ 

"Whenever  a  scene  of  uncommon  magnificence  ap- 
peared, he  (Valancourt)  hastened  to  inform  St.  Aubert, 
who,  though  he  was  too  much  tired  to  walk  himself, 
sometimes  made  the  chaise  wait,  while  Emily  went  to 
the  neighboring  cliff.  "^ 

St.  Aubert,  instead  of  taking  the  more  direct  road, 
that  ran  along  the  foot  of  the  Pyrenees  to  Languedoc, 
chose  one  that,  winding  over  the  heiahts,  afforded  more 
extensive  views  and  greater  variety  of  romantic 
scenery."^ 

The  travelers  in  these  novels,  whether  riding  or 
walking,  seem  to  enjoy  every  foot  of  the  journey:  Emily 
and  St.  Aubert  "travelled  leisurely,  stopped  wherever  a 
scene  uncommonly  grand  appeared;  frequently  alighted  to 
walk  to  an  eminence  whither  the  mules  could  not  go.  .  .  and 
often  sauntering  over  hillocks  covered  with  wild  thyme.  .  ."^ 

"The  lower  class  of  people,"  says  Richardson  in  "Claris- 
sa Harlowe,"  "are  ever  aiming  at  the  stupid  wonderful." 
This  is  but  another  way  of  saying  that  the  common  people 


1.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,'*  I,  p.  318. 

2.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  iii. 

3.  "Ibid.  »  Ch.  V. 

4.  "Ibid.,"  Ch.  iil. 

5.  "Ibid.,"  Ch  iv. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  99 

are  at  heart  romantic.  It  was  but  natural,  therefore,  that 
they  should  find  their  rightful  place  in  narrative  prose  lit-, 
erature  when  the  spirit  of  romanticism  once  dominated  the 
thought  of  the  age.  With  reference  to  the  domestics,  Wal- 
pole  declared  that  his  "rule  was  nature."  Godwin  was  in- 
terested especially  in  the  welfare  of  the  masses.  By  the 
close  of  the  century,  the  nobleness  of  common  men  in  their 
humble  estate,  and  the  true  value  of  the  individual,  formed 
the  chief  subject  of  romantic  literature. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  does  not  overlook  the  possibilities  of  this 
theme.  St.  Aubert  and  his  daughter  Emily  spent  the  night 
in  the  simple  quarters  of  a  country  peasant.  The  next 
morning  Emily  led  her  father  downstairs  "to  the  little  par- 
lor in  which  they  had  supped  the  preceding  night;  there  they 
found  a  neat  breakfast  set  out,  while  the  host  and  his 
daughter  waited  to  bid  them  good-morrow.  *I  envy  you  this 
cottage,  my  good  friend,  said  St.  Aubert,  as  he  met  them, 
it  is  so  pleasant,  so  quit,  and  so  neat.  .  .'  "^  Emily  remain- 
ed in  the  peasant's  home  for  several  days.  On  the  eve  of 
her  departure,  she  was  inspired  by  a  scene  of  domestic  felic- 
ity not  unlike  that  perfect  picture  of  noble  poverty  in  "The 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night." 

Pope  impressed  upon  his  age  the  thought  that,  in  poli- 
tics, in  law,  in  society,  and  in  religion,  "whatever  is,  is 
right."  The  Augustans,  therefore,  were  not  to  ask  the 
reason  why,  or  to  propose  ideal  remedies.  The  imagination 
was  rigidly  restrained  and  prohibited  from  dipping  into  the 
future.  "The  special  task  of  the  eighteenth  century  had 
been  to  order,  and  to  systematize,  and  to  name;  its  favorite 
methods  had  been  analysis  and  generalization.  It  asked 
for  no  new  experience.  .  .  The  abstract,  the  typical,  the 
general — these  were  everywhere  exalted  at  the  expense  of 
the  imaginative,  the  specific  experience,  the  vital  fact."^ 

Reaction  against  this  restraint  was  to  picture  life  in 
terms  of  the  imagination;  the  antithesis,  to  resort  to  the 
wildest  sort  of  fancy.  Romanticism  always  approaches 
the  subject  through  the  imagination;  hence,  when  the  poets 
and  novelists  returned  to  the  Middle  Ages  for  inspiration 


1.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  vil. 

2.  H.  A.  Beers,  "A  History  of  English  Romanticism  in  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury," p.  44.     (Quoted  from  Newman's  Selections.) 


100  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

and  for  material,  it  was  but  the  manifestation  of  a  natural 
impulse  in  keeping  with  the  changing  spirit  of  the  times. 
"The  revival  of  the  supernatural,  the  most  obvious  occasion 
for  wonder,"  says  Professor  Raleigh,  "is  the  main  part  of 
the  English  Romantic  movement,  as  exhibited  in  imagi- 
native prose."! 

Perhaps  the  most  important  single  date  in  the  history  of 
romanticism  is  1765,  when  Bishop  Percy  published  his  "Re- 
liques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry:  Consisting  of  Old  Heroic 
Ballads,  Songs,  and  Other  Pieces  of  Our  English  Poets." 
This  collection  of  ancient  English  poetry  is  made  up  of 
songs,  the  traditional  ballads,  the  product  of  the  people,  for 
the  people,  and  by  the  people  at  a  time  when  they  were  ho- 
mogeneous, before  the  separation  of  the  lettered  and  the  un- 
lettered classes  had  taken  place.  It  is  impossible  to  assign 
exact  dates  to  these  songs,  for  they  w^ere  seldom  if  ever  re- 
duced to  writing  till  many  years  after  they  were  composed; 
but  it  is  certain  that  their  roots  strike  deep  into  the  ancient 
world  of  legend  and  of  myth,  and  that  they  abound  in  the 
supernatural  and  the  marvellous  The  work  of  these  popu- 
lar poets  of  course  has  Httle  art;  but  many  of  their  poems 
show  unmistakably  that  the  authors  possessed  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  uses  of  mystery  and  suggestion,  for  their  stanzas 
often  imply  a  whole  unuttered  tragedy  of  love,  treachery, 
and  murder. 

Fiction  was  not  wholly  apathetic  towards  this  promising 
source.  To  what  extent  the  emotional  and  creative  im- 
pulses— the  purely  subjective — ^were  due  to  ancient  ballads, 
it  is  not  possible  to  say;  but  aside  from  purely  emotional 
possibilities,  the  mysterious  and  supernatural  elements — 
mainly  objective — ^were  certainly  made  use  of. 

In  the  Middle  Ages  ballads  were  sung  to  the  harp  by 
wandering  minstrels.  "Monk"  Lewis  makes  Theodore  im- 
personate the  minstrels  by  singing  an  old  ballad  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  the  guitar.  He  sings  "The  Water-King," 
which,  from  the  third  to  the  twelfth  stanza,  the  author  con- 
fesses in  his  Advertisement,  is  the  fragment  of  an  old  Dan- 
ish ballad.  Theodore,  disguised,  enters  the  monastery  and 
converses  thus  with  the  nuns: 


1.  Walter  Ralel^,  **The  EngUsh  NoveI,»»  p.  217. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  101 

"You  shall  now  hear  how  dangerous  it  is  for  young 
women  to  abandon  themselves  to  their  passions,  illus- 
trated by  the  adventure  of  a  damsel  who  fell  suddenly 
in  love  with  an  unknown  knight." 

"  *But  is  the  adventure  true?  inquired  the  porteress. 
*Every  word  of  it.     It  happened  in  Denmark.  .  .* " 
**  *But  before  I  begin,'  said  he,  'it  is  necessary  to  in- 
form you,  ladies,  that  this  same  Denmark  is  terribly  in- 
fested by  sorcerers,  witches,  and  evil  spirits.     Every 

element  possesses  its  appropriate  demons The 

rivers  are  governed  by  a  fiend  called,  The  Water- 
King:  his  province  is  to  agitate  the  deep,  occasion  ship- 
wrecks, and  drag  the  drowning  sailors  beneath  the 
waves.     He  wears  the  appearance  of  a  warrior,  and 
employs  himseK  by  luring  young  virgins  into   his 
snare. . .'  "^ 
The  Gothic  romanticists  were  in  close  accord  with  the 
tendency  of  the  times  to  return  to  the  Age  of  Chivalry,  and 
in  many  instances  they  took  over  bodily  the  materials  stor- 
ed up  in  the  mediaeval  romances.     These  materials  were 
used  to  excite  the  imagination,  and  to  arouse  the  emotions 
of  curiosity,  wonder,  fear,  and  terror. 

The  first  point  of  direct  contact  with  the  Middle  Ages  is 
the  avowed  time  of  the  action.  In  his  preface  to  "The  Cas- 
tle of  Otranto"  (first  edition) ,  Walpole  tells  his  readers  that 
the  "work  w^as  found  in  the  hbrary  of  an  ancient  Catholic 
family  in  the  north  of  England";  and  that  "it  was  printed  at 
Naples  in  the  black  letter,  in  the  year  1529."  "The  princi- 
pal incidents,"  he  declares,  "are  such  as  were  believed  in  the 
darkest  ages  of  Christianity. "^  The  period  of  time  selected 
by  Miss  Reeve  for  "The  Old  EngHsh  Baron,"  is  the  fifteenth 
century,  during  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.  Mrs.  Radcliffe  in- 
forms her  readers  that  it  was  in  1548  when  the  chateau  of 
Monsieur  St.  Aubert  stood  on  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Ga- 
ronne. 

The  place  of  action  is  nearly  always  the  ancient  castle, 
which,  with  its  Gothic  equipment,  becomes  the  hero  of  the 
story.     It  is  the  old  mediaeval  castle  in  which 

"Doors  creak  and  window's  clap,  and  night's  foul  bird* 
Rocked  in  the  spire,  screams  loud:  the  gloomy  aisles. 
Black-plastered  and  hung  'round  with  shreds  of  scutcheons 
And  tattered  coat  of  arms,  send  back  the  sound. 
Laden  with  heavier  airs  from  the  low  vaults. 
The  mansions  of  the  dead." 


1.  "The  Monk,"  Ch.  viil. 

a.  "The  CasUe  of  Otranto."    Preface  to  the  First  Edition. 


102  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"The  scene,"  said  Walpole,  "is  undoubtedly  laid  in  some 
real  castle"^;  and  of  course  he  could  have  added,  "that  castle 
is  Strawberry  Hill."  Edmund  has  his  terrible  experiences 
within  the  Castle  of  Lovel.  "Monk"  Lewis  says  in  his  Ad- 
vertisement, "I  have  been  told  the  ruins  of  the  castle  of 
Lauenstein  .  .  .  may  yet  be  seen  upon  the  borders  of  Thur- 
ingia."  Seated  at  midnight  upon  the  broken  ridge  of  a 
hill  overlooking  this  castle,  Alphonso  gives  a  sketch  of  this 
ancient  place  of  abode: 

"The  castle,  which  stood  full  in  my  sight,  formed 
an  object  equally  awful  and  picturesque.  Its  ponder- 
ous walls,  tinged  by  the  moon  with  solemn  brightness; 
its  old  and  partly  ruined  towers,  lifting  themselves  into 
the  clouds,  and  seeming  to  frown  on  the  plains  around 
them;  its  lofty  battlements,  overgrown  with  ivy,  and 
its  folding  gates.  .  .  made  me  sensible  of  a  sad  and  rev- 
erential horror."2 

"Every  feature  of  the  edifice,  distinguished  by  an 
air  of  heavy  grandeur,  appeared  successively  between 
the  branches  of  the  trees — broad  turret,  the  arched 
gate-way  that  led  into  the  courts,  the  drawbridge,  and 
the  dry  fosse  which  surrounded  the  whole."^ 

An  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  superstition  always  per- 
vades the  Gothic  castles: 

"This  custom,  if  you  will  beUeve  the  Baron,  she 
(the  Bleeding  Nun)  still  continues.  He  is  fully  persu- 
aded, that  on  the  fifth  of  May  of  every  fifth  year,  as 
soon  as  the  clock  strikes  one,  the  door  of  the  haunted 
chamber  opens.  (Observe  that  this  room  has  been 
shut  up  for  near  a  century).  Then  out  walks  the 
ghostly  nun  with  her  lamp  and  dagger;  she  descends 
the  stair-case  of  the  eastern  tower,  and  crosses  the 
great  hall.  On  that  night  the  porter  always  leaves  the 
gates  of  the  castle  open,  out  of  respect  to  the  appa- 
rition: not  that  this  is  thought  by  any  means  necessary, 
since  she  could  easily  whip  through  the  key-hole  if  she 
chose  it;  but  merely  out  of  politeness,  and  to  prevent 
her  from  making  her  exit  in  a  way  so  derogatory  to  the 
dignity  of  her  ghostship."* 

To  create  this  atmosphere  and  to  excite  the  emotions  of 


1.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto."    Preface  to  the  First  Edition. 

2.  "The  Monk,"  Ch.  iv. 

3.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  Ch.  ii. 

4.  "The  Monk."  Ch.  iv. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  103 

curiosity,  wonder,  and  fear,  the  novelist  made  use  of  every 
conceivable  means  found  in  the  mediaeval  romance;  hence 
the  machinery  of  Gothic  fiction  is  unique  and  varied.  It  is 
full  of 

"Dreams,  magic  terrors,  spells  of  mighty  power. 
Witches  and  ghosts,  who  rove  at  midnight  hour.** 

The  dream  is  frequently  used,  beginning  as  far  back  in 
English  fiction  as  Smollett.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  the 
author  tells  us,  "was  suggested  by  a  dream."i  A  most  ugly 
and  frightful  one  is  given  by  "Monk"  Lewis:  Lorenzo, 
whose  heart  is  aflame  for  the  beautiful  Antonia,  falls  asleep 
on  the  pavement  of  the  church  and  dreams  of  his  love.  An- 
tonia, w^hom  he  has  solicited  without  success  to  become  his 
bride,  enters  the  cathedral  alone,  and  approaches  the  altar. 
When  asked  by  the  friar  where  the  bride-groom  is,  she 
beckons  Lorenzo  to  approach.  He  does  so  and  falls  at  her 
feet.  She  hastens  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms,  but  be- 
fore he  has  time  to  receive  her,  an  "unknown"  rushes  be- 
tween them: 

"His  form  was  gigantic;  his  complexion  was 
swarthy,  his  eyes  fierce  and  terrible;  his  mouth  breath- 
ed out  volumes  of  fire,  and  on  his  forehead  was  written 
in  legible  characters,  'Pride !    Lust !    Inhumanity !' 

"Antonia  shrieked.  The  monster  clasped  her  in 
his  arms,  and,  springing  with  her  upon  the  altar,  tor- 
tured her  with  his  odious  caresses. —  She  endeavoured 
in  vain  to  escape  from  his  embrace.  Lorenzo  flew  to 
her  succor;  but  ere  he  had  time  to  reach  her,  a  loud 
burst  of  thunder  was  heard.  Instantly  the  cathedral 
seemed  crumbling  to  pieces;  the  monks  betook  them- 
selves to  flight,  shrieking  fearfully;  the  lamps  were  ex- 
tinguished, the  altar  sunk  down,  and  in  its  place  ap- 
peared an  abyss  vomiting  forth  clouds  of  flame.  Ut- 
tering a  loud  and  terrible  cry,  the  monster  plunged 
into  the  gulf,  and  in  his  fall  attempted  to  drag  Antonia 
with  him.  He  strove  in  vain.  Animated  by  super- 
natural powers,  she  disengaged  herself  from  his  em- 
brace, but  her  white  robes  were  left  in  his  possession. 
Instantly  a  wing  of  brilliant  splendor  spread  itself 
from  either  of  Antonia's  arms.  She  darted  upwards, 
and,  while  ascending,  cried  to  Lorenzo:  Triend!  we 
shall  meet  above !' 


1.  Letter  to  Rev.  Mr.  Cole,  March  9,  1765.    Cimnlngham,  "Letter*  of  Horace 
Walpole.**  IV.  p.  328, 


104  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"At  the  same  moment,  the  roof  of  the  cathedral 
opened;  harmonious  voices  pealed  along  the  vaults; 
and  the  glor^'^  into  which  Antonia  was  received  was 
composed  of  rays  of  such  dazzling  brightness  that 
Lorenzo  was  unable  to  sustain  the  gaze.  His  sight 
failed,  and  he  sunk  upon  the  ground. 

"When  he  awoke,  he  found  himself  extended  upon 
the  pavement  of  the  church.  .  ."^ 

"A  frightful  dream  had  represented  to  her  (Elvira) 
Antonia  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice.  She  saw  her 
trembling  on  the  brink:  every  moment  seemed  to 
threaten  her  fall,  and  she  heard  her  exclaim  with 
shrieks:  'Save  me,  mother,  save  me!  Yet  a  moment, 
and  it  will  be  too  late.'  Elvira  woke  in  terror.  The 
vision  had  made  too  strong  an  impression  upon  her 
mind  to  permit  her  resting  till  assured  of  her  daugh- 
ter's safety.  She  hastily  started  from  her  bed,  threw 
on  a  loose  night-gown,  and,  passing  through  the  closet 
in  which  slept  the  waiting-woman,  reached  Antonia's 
chamber  just  in  time  to  rescue  her  from  the  grasp  of 
the  ravisher."^ 

The  spectators  are  aghast  while  "the  pale  sheeted  ghost 
goes  by": 

According  to  the  physician's  order,  I  swallowed  a 
composing  medicine;  and  as  soon  as  the  night  shut  in, 
my  attendants  withdrew  and  left  me  to  repose. 

"That  reposed  I  wooed  in  vain.     The  agitation  of 
my  bosom  chased  away  sleep.     Restless  in  mind,  in 
spite  of  the  fatigue  of  my  body  I  continued  to  toss 
about  from  side  to  side  till  the  clock  in  a  neighbouring 
steeple  struck  'one'. . .    The  door  was  thrown  open  vio- 
lently.    A  figure  entered,  and  drew  near  my  bed  with 
solemn  measured  steps.      With  trembling  apprehen- 
sion I  examined  this  midnight  visitor.    God  Almighty ! 
— It  was  the  bleeding  Nun! — it  was  my  lost  compan- 
ion I... "3 
In  "The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  Isabella  and  the  stranger 
search  for  and  find  the  smooth  piece  of  brass  enclosed  in 
one  of  the  stones:    "That,"  said  Isabella,  "is  the  lock,  which 
opens  with  a  spring,  of  which  I  know  the  secret."    St.  Au- 
bert,  in  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  explains  to  his  daugh- 


1.  •*The  Monk,**  Ch.  1. 

2.  "Ibid.,"  Ch.  viU. 

3.  •ObidH"  CU.  Iv. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  105 

ter  the  secret  door  in  his  chamber.  It  is  a  sliding  plank 
which  is  easily  recognized  by  a  remarkable  knot  in  the  wood. 
Caleb  Williams  escaped  from  Faulklin's  home  through  a 
concealed  door  in  his  apartment — a  door  that  led  to  a 
secret  chamber,  "which  many  had  probably  sought  as  a 
refuge." 

"Monk"  Lewis  gives  us  probably  the  best  instance  of  the 
use  and  behef  in  the  talisman.  Ambrosio,  who  lacked 
strength  of  mind  sufficient  to  force  the  demons  to  obey  him, 
was  greatly  encouraged  in  his  wicked  design  against  An- 
tonia,  by  Matilda,  who  presented  him  with  a  myrtle  endow- 
ed with  supernatural  powers: 

"Receive  this  constellated  myrtle,"  said  she:  "while 
you  bear  this  in  hand,  every  door  will  fly  open  to  you. 
It  will  procure  you  access  tomorrow  night  to  Antonia's 
chamber:  then  breath  upon  it  thrice,  pronounce  her 
name,  and  place  it  upon  her  pillow.  A  deathlike  slum- 
ber will  immediately  seize  upon  her,  and  deprive  her 
of  the  power  of  resisting  your  attempts.  .  . 

"The  Abbot  received  the  talisman  with  silent  grati- 
tude. . . 

"He  rejoiced  in  the  fortunate  issue  of  his  adventure, 
and,  reflecting  upon  the  virtue  of  the  myrtle,  looked 
upon  Antonia  as  already  in  his  power. "^ 

With  the  talisman  in  hand,  the  human  monster, 
Ambrosio,  enters  the  castle,  proceeds  to  Antonia's 
sleeping  chamber,  and  then  induces  sleep  by  means  of 
its  magic: 

"No  sooner  did  he  touch  the  door  (main  entrance) 
with  the  silver  myrtle,  than  it  flew  open,  and  presented 
him  with  free  passage.  .  .  . 

"He  reached  the  door  of  Antonia's  chamber.  .  .  . 
All  was  hushed  within.  The  total  silence  persuaded 
him  that  his  intended  victim  was  retired  to  rest,  and 
he  ventured  to  lift  up  the  latch.  The  door  was  fasten- 
ed, and  resisted  his  efforts.  But  no  sooner  was  it 
touched  by  the  talisman  than  the  bolt  flew  back.  .  . 
His  first  intention  was  to  perform  the  magic  ceremony 
as  Matilda  had  charged  him:  He  breathed  thrice  upon 
the  silver  myrtel,  pronounced  over  it  Antonia's  name, 
and  laid  it  upon  her  pillow.  The  effects  which  it  had 
already  produced  permitted  not  his  doubting  its  suc- 


1.  «The  Moiik,"  Ch.  vii. 


106  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

cess  in  prolonging  the  slumbers  of  his  devoted  mis- 
tress. No  sooner  was  the  enchantment  performed 
than  he  considered  her  to  be  absolutely  in  his 
power. .  ."1 

The  psychological  aspect  of  this  type  of  novel  is  inter- 
esting and  important.  "Terror,  the  author's  principal  en- 
gine, prevents  the  story  from  languishing,"  says  Horace 
Walpole  in  his  preface.^  By  means  of  supernatural  and 
mysterious  agencies,  an  atmosphere  of  terror  is  created.  In 
the  presence  of  these  abnormal  stimuli,  the  characters  re- 
act in  response  to  the  emotions  of  curiosity,  wonder,  and 
fear.  This  was  the  creed  of  every  Gothic  romanticist,  in 
varying  degrees,  from  "The  Castle  of  Otranto"  to  "Caleb 
Williams."  The  author  hoped  that  the  reader  of  these  wild 
narratives  would,  by  putting  himself  "en  rapport"  with  the 
characters,  experience  a  rise  of  emotions  corresponding  to 
that  of  the  actors.  By  calling  his  victims  to  the  witness 
stand,  and  by  permitting  them  to  testify  concerning  the  im- 
pression the  series  of  events  was  making  upon  them,  the 
author  expected  the  story  would  arouse  the  emotion  of  fear, 
and  make  his  readers  cry  a  little  o'nights.  Listen  to  the  tes- 
timony of  several  frightened  victims: 

When  the  picture  quit  its  panel,  descended  to  the  floor, 
and  marched  to  the  end  of  the  gallery,  "Manfred  accom- 
panied him  at  a  little  distance,  full  of  anxiety  and  horror." 
When  he  beheld  his  son  crushed  beneath  the  ponderous 
helmet,  "the  horror  of  the  spectacle  and  the  tremendous 
phenomenon  before  him  took  away  the  prince's  speech."^ 

Isabella  decided  to  escape  from  Manfred  by  the  secret 
passage: 

"An  awful  silence  reigned  throughout  those  sub- 
terraneous regions,  except,  now  and  then,  some  blast 
of  wind,  that  shook  the  doors  she  had  passed,  and 
which,  grating  on  rusty  hinges,  were  re-echoed  through 
the  lonj5  labyrinth  of  darkness.  Every  murmur  struck 
her  with  new  terror.  .  ."  "Every  suggestion  that  hor- 
ror could  inspire  rushed  into  her  mind." 

"She  approached  the  door  that  had  been  opened; 


1.  "The  Monk,"  ch.  viil. 

2.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto."    Preface  to  the  First  Edition. 

3.  "Ibid.,"  Ch.  I. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  107 

but  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  that  met  her  at  the  door,  ex- 
tinguished her  lamp  and  left  her  in  total  darkness. 

"Words  cannot  paint  the  horror  of  the  princesses 
situation."^ 

When  at  some  distance  Alphonso  viewed  the  Linden- 
berg  Castle  by  moonlight,  it  "formed  an  object  equally  aw- 
ful and  picturesque";  but  when  he  thought  of  the  folding 
gates,  expanding  in  honor  of  the  visionary  inhabitant,  it 
made  him  "sensible  of  a  sad  and  reverential  horror."^ 

In  another  situation,  "Monk"  Lewis  gives  the  most 
grewsome  scene  of  all  the  Gothic  writers.  Don  Raymond, 
who  has  had  such  horrifying  experiences  with  the  appa- 
rition, is  ill  at  ease  and  partially  demented.  He  is  exerting 
every  effort  to  induce  sleep  and  quiet  when  the  spectre 
makes  her  regular  nocturnal  visit.  Don  Raymond  lets  us  in- 
to his  inmost  sanctuary: 

"That  repose  I  had  woed  in  vain.  The  agitation  of 
my  bosom  chased  away  sleep.  Restless  in  my  mind, 
in  spite  of  the  fatigue  of  my  body,  I  continued  to  toss 
about  from  side  to  side  till  the  clock  in  the  neighbour- 
ing steeple  struck  'one'.  As  I  listened  to  the  mournful 
hollow  sound,  and  heard  it  die  away  in  the  wind,  I  felt 
a  sudden  chillness  spread  itself  over  my  body.  I  shud- 
dered without  knowing  wherefore;  cold  dews  poured 
down  my  forehead,  and  my  hair  stood  bristhng  with 
alarm.  Suddenly  I  heard  slow  and  heavy  steps  as- 
'  cending  the  staircase.  By  an  involuntary  movement  I 
started  up  in  my  bed,  and  drew  back  the  curtain.  A 
single  rush-light,  which  glimmered  upon  the  hearth, 
shed  a  faint  gleam  through  the  apartment,  which  was 
hung  with  tapestry.  The  door  was  thrown  open  with 
violence.  A  figure  entered,  and  drew  near  my  bed 
with  solemn  measured  steps.  With  trembling  appre- 
hension I  examined  this  midnight  visitor.  God  Al- 
mighty!— it  was  the  Bleeding  Nun! — it  was  my  lost 
companion!  Her  face  was  still  veiled,  but  she  no 
longer  held  her  lamp  and  dagger.  She  lifted  her  veil 
slowly.  What  a  sight  presented  itself  to  my  startled 
eyes!  I  beheld  before  me  an  animated  corpse.  Her 
countenance  was  long  and  haggard;  her  cheeks  and 
lips  were  bloodless;  the  paleness  of  death  was  spread 


1.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  Ch.  i. 

2,  "The  Monk,"  Ch.  iv. 


108  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

over  her  features;  and  her  eye-balls  fixed  steadfastly 
upon  me,  lustreless  and  hollow. 

"I  gazed  upon  the  spectre  with  horror  too  great  to 
*  be  described.  My  blood  was  frozen  in  my  veins.  I 
would  have  called  for  aid,  but  the  sound  expired  ere 
it  could  pass  my  lips.  My  nerves  were  bound  up  in  im- 
potence, and  I  remained  in  the  same  attitude  inanimate 
as  a  statue."^ 

In  his  efforts  to  arouse  fear,  "Monk"  Lewis  far  sur- 
passed other  Gothic  authors.  Don  Raymond,  speaking 
of  the  appearance  of  the  apparition,  says,  "Every  night 
was  this  repeated.  Far  from  growing  accustomed  to  the 
ghost,  every  succeeding  visit  inspired  me  with  greater  hor- 
ror. Her  idea  pursued  me  continually,  and  I  became  the 
prey  of  habitual  melancholy."^  His  series  of  events,  de- 
signed to  arouse  the  fear  instinct,  carry  with  them  what  is  of 
very  great  importance — a  series  of  approximations  in  which 
the  terrorizing  agency  repeatedly  approaches  closer  and 
closer  to  its  victim.  This  is  precisely  the  theory  on  which 
Poe  constructed  "The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  "  "The  Masque 
of  the  Red  Death,"  and  "A  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom." 

But  the  same  criticism  applies  to  all.  Walpole  claims 
in  his  preface  that  the  excitement  is  constantly  renewed. 
But  "excitement,"  says  Professor  Beers,  "is  too  strong  a 
word  to  describe  any  emotion  which  'The  Castle  of  Otranto' 
is  now  capable  of  arousing."^  The  truth  is,  the  emotions 
of  curiosity,  wonder,  and  fear  are  comparatively  weak 
emotions.  They  are  universal  emotions  to  be  sure,  but  in 
the  adult  they  cannot  be  easily  aroused,  and,  even  if  excited 
to  the  highest  pitch,  rapidly  abate;  they  do  not  stand  the 
strain,  therefore,  of  a  well-knit  plot.  The  fact  that  the  ac- 
tion always  takes  place  under  cover  of  darkness  is  strong 
evidence  of  instability.  It  takes  place  almost  invariably  on 
some  "fatal  night."  "Nocturnal  excursions"  usually  begin 
just  when  "the  castle  bell  announces  the  hour  of  midnight." 
The  little  child  is  not  so  much  afraid  of  what  is  in  the  dark; 
the  cause  of  its  fear  is  the  fact  that  darkness  deprives  it  of 


1.  "The  Monk,"  Ch.  Iv. 

2.  "Ibid." 

3.  H.  A.  Beers,  "A  History  of  English  Romanticism,"  p.  238. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  109 

the  use  of  vision  in  its  defense.  Such  precarious  situations 
are  now  not  natural  to  the  adult. 

Perhaps  William  Godwin,  near  the  close  of  the  century, 
approaches  more  closely  to  the  real  spirit  of  romanticism  in 
Gothic  fiction,  than  does  any  of  his  predecessors.  That 
Godwin  was  a  radical,  an  extremist  in  his  ideals  of  social 
and  political  reform,  cannot  be  gainsaid;  and  that  he  per- 
mitted his  theories  to  intrude  upon  and  mar  his  art,  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  But  a  similar  accusation  might  be 
brought  against  every  eighteenth-century  novelist,  though 
with  less  weight,  because  their  particular  theories  of  reform 
were  not  so  far-reaching  in  their  immediate  consequences, 
as  were  Godwin's.  There  is  actually  little  of  a  revolution- 
ary character  in  his  one  outstanding  novel — a  novel  that 
seems  to  live  in  spite  of  its  critics.  "We  conceive  no  one 
ever  began  *Galeb  Williams,' "  says  Mr.  Hazlitt,  "that  did 
not  read  it  through:  no  one  that  ever  read  it  could  possibly 
forget  it,  or  speak  of  it  after  any  length  of  time  but  with  an 
impression  as  if  the  events  and  feelings  had  been  personal 
to  himself ."1  It  is  noteworthy,  too,  that  Mr.  Hazlitt  found 
but  one  undesirable  feature:  "The  fault,  then,  of  Mr.  God- 
win's philosophy,  in  one  word,  was  too  much  ambition"  ;2 
and  with  respect  to  novel  writing,  he  implies  that,  of  the  two 
evils,  it  is  far  better  to  have  too  much  ambition,  than  too 
little. 

"Romanticism  is  the  stirring  of  new  life,  the  assertion  of 
the  principle  of  growth."  To  miss  this  in  "Caleb  Williams" 
is  to  miss  its  vital  force.  The  Gothic  element  is  there,  but 
it  is  scarcely  more  than  the  faint  glimmer  of  dying  embers. 
The  social  and  political  reform  elements  are  there,  too,  just 
as  they  are  expressed  in  the  preface  or  implied  in  the  body 
of  every  eighteenth-century  novel.  Once  more:  "The  es- 
sence of  romanticism,  in  its  distinctly  human  expression,  is 
dissatisfaction,  'aspiration';  and  what  is  aspiration  but  a 
keen  sense  of  imperfection  and  a  desire  for  change?" 
Caleb,  the  dissatisfied  youth,  is  straining  at  the  leash  with 
all  his  power  to  free  himself — not  so  much  from  social  and 
political  fetters,  it  seems,  as  from  "self."     "Why,"  he  asks. 


1.  William  Hazlitt,  "Spirit  of  the  Age,"  p.  36. 

2.  «n>ld.,»*  p.  26. 


110  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

"should  my  reflection  perpetually  center  upon  myself? — 
self  an  overweening  regard  to  which  has  been  the  source  of 
my  errors  !"^  Finally,  Caleb  does  not  blame  wholly  either 
Falkland,  or  social  and  political  conditions;  the  failure  after 
all  must  be  traced  to  its  real  source,  self.  But  Caleb's  desire 
for  change,  and  the  struggle  to  realize  it,  is  vital,  strong, 
and  unconquerable.  If  the  reader  enters  into  full  "rapport" 
with  Caleb,  he  feels  unmistakably  the  longing  aspiration  of 
the  human  soul;  hence,  but  for  the  enthusiasm  which  must 
be  lacking  in  any  prose  work,  he  feels  the  very  pulse  of  the 
movement.  Caleb  had  drawn  a  circle  premature  about 
self;  too  late  he  realized  that 

"Bliss  was  It  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive. 
But  to  be  young  was  very  Heaven!'* 

The  ingredients  of  eighteenth-century  "Gothic"  stories 
are  strictly  mediaeval,  if  there  is  any  individuality  about 
them  at  all.  But  the  criticism  here  is,  the  authors  did  not 
know  the  Middle  Ages;  indeed  there  is  good  evidence  that 
they  cared  little  about  knowing  them.  Walpole  was  hardly 
more  than  a  curioso  living  within  a  so-called  ancient  castle 
built  by  his  own  hands.  "Walpole  knew  little  about  the 
Middle  Ages  and  was  not  in  touch  with  their  spirit,"  says 
Professor  Beers,  and  adds:  "At  bottom  he  was  a  trifler,  a 
fribbler;  and  his  incurable  superficiality,  dilettantism,  and 
want  of  seriousness,  made  all  his  real  cleverness  of  no  avail 
when  applied  to  such  a  subject  as  "The  Castle  of  Olranto."^ 
Miss  Reeve  admits  that  her  story  "is  the  literal  offspring  of 
'The  Castle  of  Otranto',  written  upon  the  same  plan."  A 
causual  reading  of  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho"  will  con- 
vince the  reader  that  Mrs.  Radcliife  was  farther  removed 
from  the  Age  of  Chivalry  than  she  was  from  the  Pyrenees 
Mountains.  If  there  ever  was  a  castle  on  the  "pleasant 
banks  of  the  Garonne,"  certainly  Mrs.  Radcliife  had  never 
seen  it.  And  "Monk"  Lewis  says,  "  *I  am  told'  the  Castle  of 
Lowenstein  may  still  be  seen."    The  revival  of  the  Middle 


1.  "Caleb  Williams."    The  Postscript. 

This  consciousness  of  self  with  interests,  and  with  responsibility  for  the 
moral  consequences  attendant  upon  the  disregard  of  those  interests,  is 
not  a  new  note.  Tom  Jones  uses  almost  the  same  language:  "But  why 
do  I  blame  Fortune?  I  am  myself  the  cause  of  all  my  misery."— "Tom 
Jones,"  Bk.  XVIII,  Ch.  ii. 

2.  H.  A.  Beers,  "A  History  of  English  Romanticism,"  p.  240. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  111 

Ages,  therefore,  in  so  far  as  the  Gothic  novel  was  concerned, 
was  almost  purely  fanciful.  The  imagination  was  uncul- 
tured because  the  authors  were  deficient  in  knowledge  and 
out  of  touch  with  the  spirit  of  those  times. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  however,  that  this  type  of  fic- 
tion was  entertaining,  and  that  it  was  popular,  too,  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Walpole  declared 
in  his  preface  that  his  intention  in  laying  the  book  before 
the  public  at  that  time  was  a  matter  of  entertainment. 
Presently  a  second  edition  was  called  for,  and  other  novels 
of  the  same  class  followed.  If  we  wonder  today  why  it 
entertained  then,  we  need  but  to  remember  that  pseudo- 
classicism  had  dammed  up  the  emotions,  and  had  rigidly 
restrained  the  imagination  for  three  quarters  of  a  century; 
and  that  magic,  mystery,  and  chivalry,  though  artificial,  did 
much  toward  releasing  them.  Fear  may  be  excited  if  the 
machinery  designed  for  that  purpose  succeeds  in  attracting 
attention;  while  it  does  not  attract  our  attention  today,  it 
certainly  did  to  a  very  marked  degree  in  the  latter  half  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  because  men's  minds  were  ripe  for 
it. 

The  Gothic  novel  before  "Caleb  Williams"  was  always 
reactionary  in  tone,  and  nearly  always  so  in  purpose.  Its 
ingredients  purported  to  be  from  the  Age  of  Chivalry;  hence 
the  force  was  exerted  against  pseudo-classis  canons  chiefly 
by  the  power  of  fancy  and  imagination.  The  Gothic  story, 
therefore,  kept  the  mind  of  the  masses  open  and  free,  and 
made  for  the  poets  a  more  easily  accessible  way  to  the  soul. 

"Romanticism,"  says  Professor  Beers,  "is  a  word  which 
faces  in  two  directions.  It  is  now  opposed  to  realism,  as  it 
was  once  opposed  to  classicism.  As,  in  one  way,  its  free- 
dom and  lawlessness,  its  love  of  novelty,  experiment, 
'strangeness  added  to  beauty,'  contrast  with  the  classical 
respect  for  rules,  models,  formulae,  precedents,  conven- 
tions; so,  in  another  way,  its  discontent  with  things  as  they 
are,  its  idealism,  avspiration,  mysticism  contrast  with  the 
realist's  conscientious  adherence  to  fact.''^ 

The  Gothic  novel  differed  from  the  old  type  of  romance. 


1.  H.  A.  Beers,  "A  history  of  English  Romanticism  in  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury,»»  p.  23. 


112  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY  NOVEL 


before  Richardson  and  Fielding,  in  that  it  was  tempered  by 
English  life  and  thought  of  the  eighteenth  century.  In  its 
effect  upon  English  life,  it  seems  to  have  been  an  effectual 
complement  to  the  School  of  Realism.  Realism  helped  men 
and  women  to  know  themselves  intellectually,  socially,  and 
morally  by  calling  to  it  reason  and  common  sense,  based 
on  general  principles.^  Romanticism  added  a  new  charm  to 
life  by  affecting  that  life  through  the  imagination .2 

"The  attitude  of  the  age  towards  the  marvellous,"  Pro- 
fessor Raleigh  points  out,  "has  been  best  expressed,  as  might 
be  expected,  by  the  great  exponent  of  the  age.  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson.  *To  select  a  singular  event,  and  swell  it  to  a 
giant's  bulk  by  fabulous  appendages  of  spectres  and  pre- 
dictions has  little  diiTiculLy;  for  he  that  forsakes  the  prob- 
able may  always  find  the  marvelous.  And  it  has  little  use; 
we  are  affected  only  as  we  believe;  we  are  improved  only 
as  we  find  something  to  be  imitated  or  declined.  I  do  not 
see  that  The  Bard'  promotes  any  truth,  moral  or  political.''^ 

"  *We  are  affected  only  as  we  believe'."  This  sentence 
Professor  Raleigh  selects  for  comment:  The  sentence  gives 
a  terse  and  final  statement  of  the  chief  eighteenth-century 
heresy  ...  It  is  the  key  to  the  dominant  methods  in  the  art 
of  fiction.  But  the  statement  is  not  true,  for  we  are  affected 
also  as  we  imagine.  And  his  recognition  of  this  long-for- 
gotten truth  entitles  Horace  Walpole,  who  hit  upon  it  in 
blundering  dilettante  fashion,  and  illustrated  it  in  his  *CastIe 
of  Otranto,'  to  a  high  place  among  the  founders  of  modem 
Romanticism."'* 

But,  "whatever  the  origin,"  says  Leslie  Stephen,  "the  in- 
stinct gratified  by  the  novels,  and  the  condition  of  the  time. 


1.  ''Reason,"  says  Sterne,  "is,  half  of  it.  Sense:  and  the  measure  of  Heaven 
itself  is  but  the  measure  of  our  oresent  appetites  and  concoctions." — "Tris- 
tram Shandy,"  VIT,  Ch.  xlii. 

2.  "The  imagination,"  says  Emerson,  "infuses  a  certain  volatility  and  intoxi- 
cation. It  has  a  flute  which  sets  the  atoms  of  our  frame  in  a  drmce,  like 
planets;  and,  once  so  liberated,  the  whole  man  is  reeling  drunk  to  the 
music,  they  never  quite  subside  to  their  old  stony  state." 

f'But  what  is  the  imagination?"  he  asks.  His  answer  is:  "Only  an  arm 
or  weapon  of  the  interior  energy;  only  the  precursor  of  the  reason.  And 
books  that  treat  the  old  pedantries  of  the  world,  our  times,  places,  pro- 
fessions, customs,  opinions,  histories,  with  a  certain  freedom,  and  dis- 
tribute things,  not  after  the  usage  of  America  and  Europe,  but  after  the 
laws  of  right  reason,  and  with  as  daring  a  freedom  as  we  use  in  dreams, 
put  us  on  our  feet  again,  enable  us  to  form  an  original  judgment  of  our 
duties,  and  suggest  new  thoughts  for  tomorrow."— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 
"Society  and  Solitude,"  'Books,'  pp.  303-304. 

3.  Johnson's  Works,  VI,  p.  224. 

4.  Walter  Raleigh,  "The  English  Novel,"  pp.  220-221. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  113 

sufficiently  determined  the  form.  The  world  of  legend  and 
ideal  grandeur  had  grown  dim.^  A  new  social  form  was  de-= 
veloping  itself.  What  could  men  do  more  than  talk  about 
themselves?  And  thus,  since  the  days  of  Defoe,  we  have 
derived  unceasing  amusement  from  looking  into  the  mir- 
rors which  reflect,  with  more  or  less  fidelity,  the  incidents 
and  manners  of  our  daily  lif  e."^ 

"What  could  men  do  more  than  talk  about  themselves?" 
— a  sentence  pregnant  with  meaning  and  significance  for 
the  mid-eighteenth  century.  Richardson  wrote  in  "Clarissa 
Harlowe:"  "Great  sentiments  uttered  with  dignity  by  a  good 
person,  give,  as  it  were,  a  visibility  to  the  soul."  That  great 
sentiments  were  uttered  through  the  novel  by  characters 
chosen  from  "all"  ranks  of  English  society,  is  certain;  that 
those  sentiments  did  give  visibility  to  the  soul — "individu- 
ality" to  the  common  Englishman — there  can  be  no  doubt. 

"In  the  period  of  our  history  in  question  (1740-1760),  a 
security  of  person  and  property,  and  a  freedom  of  opinion 
had  been  established,  which  made  every  man  feel  of  some 
consequence  to  himself,  and  appear  an  object  of  some  curi- 
osity to  his  neighbors;  our  manners  became  more  domesti- 
cated; there  was  a  general  spirit  of  sturdiness  and  inde- 
pendence, which  made  the  English  character  more  truly 
fenglish  than  perhaps  at  any  other  period — that  is,  more  ten- 
acious of  its  own  opinions  and  purposes." 

"Fielding  succeeded  in  turning  men's  thoughts  upon 
themselves,"  says  his  biographer.  Professor  Cross.  The 
immediate  and  direct  result  of  this  was  the  realization  of 
self — the  individualization  of  common  men.  The  next  logi- 
cal step  was  dissatisfaction  with  self  and  with  the  conditions 
of  life  then  existing.  By  calling  again  the  imagination  into 
play  through  the  romantic  story,  the  masses  began  reaching 
out,  though  perhaps  unconsciously,  for  better  things — ^for 
more  ideal  conditions  of  life.  By  the  close  of  the  century, 
they  were  seeking  to  embody  known  ideals  through  the 
novel  of  theory. 


1.  Referring  to  the  old  romance  before  Richardson  and  Fielding. 

2.  Leslie  Stephen,  "English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century/*  H,  p.  S7», 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  DEMOCRATIC  IDEA 

V  When  artists  like  Richardson,  Fielding,   Sterne,  and 

Goldsmith  made  common  men  leading  characters  in  their 
novels,  they  were  unconsciously  advancing  the  theory  of 
equality,  and  were  teaching  the  masses,  and  their  social 
superiors  likewise,  that  all  men  of  whatever  rank  in  society 
had  a  right  to  full  representation  in  the  pages  of  fiction. 
Once  in,  they  could  not  be  denied  the  right  of  free  thought 
and  speech  on  all  matters  both  public  and  private.  If  he 
was  true  to  human  nature  as  he  claimed  to  be  in  his  preface, 
the  writer  was  bound  literally  to  respect  the  rights  of  com- 
mon men.  Professor  Stoddard  calls  attention  to  the  fact 
that  Jefferson,  as  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
was  the  first  to  assert  in  an  utterance  of  great  importance 
"the  notion  of  individual  worth,  the  dignity  of  man  as  man," 
and  he  adds:  "Yet  no  less  significantly,  if  less  dogmatically, 
did  Fielding  assert  the  same  proposition  when,  twenty-seven 
years  before  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was  penned, 
j  he  made  the  world  take  eager  interest  in  one  common-place 
V  individual,  Tom  Jones.  It  is  an  assertion  of  the  rights  of 
man  when  Sterne  compels  us  to  care  for  Uncle  Toby  and  for 
Tristram  Shandy;  when  Richardson  makes  the  woes  of 
Pamela  move  the  hearts  of  a  generation;  when  Smollett 
finds  nobility  of  character  in  a  Roderick  Random  or  a  Hum- 
phrey Clinker;  when  Goldsmith  paints  a  universal  type  in 
the  unfortunate  Vicar  of  Wakefield."^ 

The  idea  of  religious,  social,  and  political  equality — the 
notion  that  all  men  are  created  equal — was  slowly  changing 
X  English  life  and  thought  throughout  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  "The  novel  is  the  epic  of  democracy," 
says  Professor  Stoddard,  and  adds:  "It  is  no  accident  that 
the  great  days  of  the  historical  novel  followed  the  great 
days  of  strife  for  liberty  in  America  and  France."^    But  of 


1.  F.  H.  Stoddard,  "The  Evolution  of  the  English  Novel,»*  pp.  90-91. 
^.  "Ibid.,"  p.  92. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  115 

course  the  struggle  for  liberty  here  and  in  Europe  was  not 
limited  to  a  few  years  of  actual  fighting;  men's  minds  had  to 
be  prepared  for  the  times  that  were  to  try  their  souls.  The 
novel,  especially  that  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  Sterne,  and 
Goldsmith,  did  much  towards  this  end. 

Before  average  men  can  grasp  the  idea  of  democracy — 
equaUty  of  person  and  opportunity — it  is  necessary  for  them  1 
to  have  a  fairly  clear  conception  of  personal  identity — an  I 
idea  of  the  individuality  of  persons.  This  was  the  first  great 
task  of  the  novelist.  "The  notion  of  personality,"  says 
Professor  Stoddard,  "is  implied  in  the  very  idea  of  the 
novel."!  Professor  Cross  asserts  that  "Fielding  succeeded 
in  turning  men's  thoughts  upon  themselves."  This  was  the 
first  step  in  the  process  of  individualization — the  first  step 
in  making  the  average  man  feel  the  "scope  and  sovereignty 
of  his  ego." 

One  thing  of  very  great  importance — one  that  marked  a  ^ 
step  in  advance  for  the  masses — was  the  fact  that  people  of 
rank — ^kings,  lords,  princes,  nobles — were  displaced  in  the 
novel  often  by  people  of  obscure  parentage,  and  little  afflu- 
ence. "Untitled  humanity"  now  became  the  accepted  sub- 
ject for  romance.  Their  number  and  character  for  so  early 
a  date  are  astonishing.  Pamela,  the  first  to  appear,  was  a 
poor  girl.  Born  in  the  county  of  obscure  parents,  she  was 
happy  in  the  servcie  of  Mr.  B.'s  mother,  and  apparently 
would  have  been  contented  to  continue  in  the  service  of  lady 
Booby;  and  simple,  innocent  Parson  Adams  declared  that 
no  man  was  too  common  or  too  poor  for  him  to  notice  and 
to  consider  his  equal.  The  accomplished  Clarissa  Harlowe 
was  from  the  middle  class,  possibly  but  a  station  in  advance 
of  Pamela.  Both  Tom  Jones  and  Sophia  Western  had  been 
bred  in  the  country,  and  neither  possessed  any  knowledge  of 
the  city.  Amelia,  Tristram  Shandy,  Humphrey  Clinker, 
and  a  host  of  others  seem  now  to  have  acquired  a  natural 
right  in  the  pages  of  fiction.  "The  individual,  no  matter  of 
what  degree,"  says  Professor  Stoddard,  "now  had  rights  of 
representation  in  the  novel  no  less  than  in  government.  .  . 
It  is  the  declaration  of  independence  in  fiction,  and  ends  for- 


1.  F.  H.  Stoddard,  "The  Evolution  of  the  EngUsb  Novel »  pp.  45-4«. 


««  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

ever  the  exclusive  domination  of  the  mediaeval  romance."* 
To  effect  this  change  from  titled  to  untitled  humanity, 
novelists  made  use  of  several  means.  Richardson,  in  de- 
fending the  slow  epistolary  method  of  telling  the  story,  does 
so  partly  on  the  ground  that  it  has  advantages  in  revealing 
personality.  "The  letters  and  conversations,  where  the  sto- 
ry makes  the  slowest  progress,"  he  says,  "  are  presumed  to 
be  'characteristic'  They  give  occasion,  likewise,  to  suggest 
many  interesting  'personalities,'  in  which  a  good  deal  of 
the  instruction  essential  to  a  work  of  this  nature  is  con- 
veyed."2  One  thing  that  made  personality  so  conspicuous 
and  interesting  was  that  novelists  usually  pitted  the  wit  and 
judgment  of  men  and  women  of  low  birth — ^possessors  of 
little  culture  and  few  desirable  attainments — against  those 
fine  qualities  and  parts  of  their  social  and  intellectual  su- 
periors. And  in  this  combat  of  wits,  the  person  of  average 
culture  and  ability  nearly  always  won  his  point.  Authors 
saw  to  it,  too,  that  those  who  assumed  greater  excellencies 
for  themselves  frankly  confessed  inferiority  in  this  par- 
ticular. 

Richardson's  first  novel,  which  ran  its  course  down- 
ward through  the  masses,  is  full  of  instances  that  elevate 
Pamela  above  her  superior,  Mr.  B.  The  young  girl,  just 
fifteen  years  of  age,  writes  a  letter  to  her  poor  but  honest 
parents  in  which  she  reports  a  conversation  between  Mr.  B. 
and  Longman: 

"As  for  the  rest,  said  he  (Mr.  B.),  the  girl  is  a  good 
sort  of  body,  take  her  all  together:  though  I  must  needs 
say,  a  little  pert, -since  my  mother's  death,  in  her  an- 
swers, and  gives  me  two  words  for  one;  which  I  can't 
bear;  nor  is  there  reason  I  should,  you  know,  Long- 
man. 

"Did  he  not,  my  dear  father  and  mother,  deserve  all 
the  truth  to  be  told?  Yet  I  overcame  myself  so  far,  as 
to  say,  Well,  your  honor  may  play  unon  a  poor  girl, 
that  you  know  *can'  answer  you,  but  'dares'  not."^ 

"You  do  well,  sir,  said  I,  to  even  your  wit  to  such  a 
poor  maiden  as  me:  but,  permit  me  to  say,  that  if  you 


1.  F.  H.  Stoddard,  "The  Evolution  of  the  English  NovcI.»»  p.  »1. 

2.  Postscript  to  "Clarissa  Harlowe." 

3.  "Pamela/*  I,  Letter  xxvlii. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  117 

was  not  rich  and  great,  and  I  poor  and  little,  you  would 
not  insult  me  thus. — Let  me  ask  you,  sir,  if  you  think 
this  becomes  your  fine  clothes  and  master's  station? 
Why  so  serious,  my  pretty  Pamela?  said  he:  Why  so 
grave?  And  would  kiss  me;  but  my  heart  was  full, 
and  I  said.  Let  me  alone;  I  'will'  tell  you,  if  you  was  a 
king,  and  insulted  me  as  you  have  done,  that  you  have 
forgotten  to  act  like  a  gentleman:  and  I  won't  stay  to  be 
used  thus.  .  .  and  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  that  I  can 
stoop  to  the  ordinaries  t  work  of  your  scullins,  for  all 
these  nasty  soft  hands,  sooner  than  bear  such  un- 
gentlemanly  imputations."^ 

"If  I  was  your  equal,  sir,  said  I,  I  should  say  this 
is  a  very  provoking  way  of  jeering  at  the  misfortunes 
you  have  brough  upon  me. 

"Oh,  said  he,  the  liberties  you  have  taken  with  my 
character  in  your  letters,  sets  us  upon  a  par,  at  least 
in  that  respect.  Sir,  I  could  not  have  taken  those  liber- 
ties, if  you  had  not  given  me  the  cause:  and  the 
'cause,'  sir,  you  know,  is  before  the  effect. 

"True,  Pamela,  said  he;  you  chop  logic  very  pret- 
tily. What  the  deuce  do  we  men  go  to  school  for?  If 
our  wits  were  equal  to  woman's,  we  might  spare  much 
time  and  pains  in  our  education:  for  nature  teaches 
your  sex,  what,  in  a  long  course  of  labor  and  study, 
ours  can  hardly  attain  to. — But,  indeed,  every  lady  is 
not  a  Pamela." 

"Pray,  Mrs.  Jewkes,  said  I,  don't  'madam'  me  so:  I 
am  but  a  silly  poor  girl,  set  up  by  the  gambol  of  for- 
tune, for  a  Maygame;  . . .  And  let  you  and  me  talk  upon 
a  foot  together;  for  I  am  a  servant  inferior  to  you,  and 
so  much  the  more  as  I  am  turned  out  of  the  place. 

"Ay,  ay,  says  she,  I  understand  something  of  the 
matter;  you  have  so  great  power  over  my  master,  that* 
you  may  soon  be  mistress  of  us  all;  and  so  I  would 
oblige  you,  if  I  could.  And  I  must  and  will  call  you 
madam;  for  I  am  instructed  to  show  you  all  respect, 
I'll  assure  you."^ 

Not  only  is  there  an  air  of  independence  in  the  conver- 
sations of  inferiors,  but  there  is  also  manifested  the  air  of 
indifterence — sometimes  a  feeUng  of  positive  disdain  to- 
wards superiors: 

"  *Do  as  I  bid  you,'  says  my  lady,  'and  don*t  shock 

1.  "Pamela,"  I,  Letter  xxTit 

2.  "Ibid./*  I,  Letter  auuOi.  .  .      . 


Its  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

my  ears  with  your  beastly  language.'  'Marry  come  up,' 
.  cries  Slipslop,  'people's  ears  are  sometimes  the  nicest 
part  about  them.' 

"The  lady,  who  begun  to  admire  the  new  style  in 
which  her  waiting-gentlewoman  delivered  herself,  and 
by  the  conclusion  of  her  speech  suspected  somewhat  of 
the  truth,  called  her  back,  and  desired  to  know  what 
she  meant  by  the  extraordinary  freedom  in  which  she 
thought  proper  to  indulge  her  tongue.  'Freedom!' 
says  Slipslop;  'I  don't  know  what  you  call  freedom, 
madam;  servants  have  tongues  as  well  as  their  mis- 
tresses.' 'Yes,  and  saucy  ones  too,'  answered  the  lady, 
'but  I  assure  you  I  shall  bear  no  such  impertinence.' 
'Impertinence!  I  don't  know  that  I  am  impertinent,' 
says  Slipslop.  'Yes,  indeed  you  are,'  cries  my  lady,  'and, 
unless  you  mind  your  manners,  this  house  is  no  place 
for  you.'  'Manners!'  cries  Slipslop;  'I  never  was 
thought  to  want  manners  or  modesty  neither;  and  for 
places,  there  are  more  places  than  one;  and  I  know 
what  I  know.'  'What  do  you  know,  mistress?'  answer- 
ed the  lady.  'I  am  not  obliged  to  tell  that  to  every- 
body,' says  slipslop,  'any  more  than  I  am  obliged  to 
keep  it  a  secret.'  'I  desire  you  will  provide  yourself,' 
answered  the  lady.  'With  all  my  heart,'  replied  the 
waiting-gentlewoman,  and  so  departed  in  a  passion, 
and  slammed  the  door  after  her."i 

Again,  servants  sometimes  make  positive  assertions  that 
no  real  distinction  exists  between  them  and  their  masters 
and  mistresses.  Mr.  Tow-wouse  and  the  servant  Betty, 
having  been  discovered  in  an  act  of  indecency,  are  sub- 
jected to  a  severe  tongue-lashing  by  Mrs.  Tow-wouse. 

Mrs.  Tow-wouse  to  her  husband  and  Betty: 

"  'To  abuse  my  bed,  my  own  bed,  with  my  own 
servant!  but  I'll  maul  the  slut:  I'll  tear  her  nasty  eyes 
out !  Was  ever  such  a  pitiful  dog  to  take  up  with  such 
a  mean  trollop?  If  she  had  been  a  gentlewoman  hke 
myself,  it  had  been  some  excuse;  but  a  beggarly,  saucy, 
dirty  servant-maid.  Get  you  out  of  my  house,  you 
whore.'  To  which  she  added  another  name,  which  we 
do  not  care  to  stain  our  paper  with.  It  was  a  mon- 
osyllable beginning  with  a  b-,  and  indeed  was  the  same 
as  if  she  had  pronounced  the  words,  she-dog.  Which 
term  we  shall,  to  avoid  offence,  use  on  this  occasion. 


1.  «*Joseph  Andrew*,'*  I,  Ch.  ix. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  119 

though  indeed  both  the  mistress  and  maid  uttered  the 
above-mentioned  b — ,  a  word  extremely  disgustful  to 
females  of  the  lower  sort.  Betty  had  borne  all  hither- 
to with  patience,  and  had  uttered  only  lamentations; 
but  the  last  appellation  stung  her  to  the  quick.  *I  am  a 
woman  as  well  as  yourself,'  she  roared  out,  'and  no  she- 
dog;  and  if  I  have  been  no  better  than  I  should  be,* 
cried  she  sobbing,  'that's  no  reason  you  should  call  me 
out  of  my  name;  my  be-betters  are  wo- worse  than 
me.'  "1 

Although  Pamela  and  her  brother  Joseph  were  born  of 
poor,  obscure  parents,  they  were  finally  admitted  on  a 
plane  of  equality,  after  much  violent  protest,  into  the  homes 
of  persons  who  thought  themselves  their  superiors.  Mr.  B., 
apprehensive  of  the  outcome  of  his  marriage  to  Pamela, 
tells  her  frankly  what  she  may  expect,  and  why: 

"But  what  can  I  do?  Consider  the  pride  of  my 
position.  I  cannot  endure  the  though  of  marriage, 
even  with  a  person  of  equal  or  superior  degree  to  my- 
self; and  have  declined  several  proposals  of  that  kind. 
How  then,  with  the  distance  between  us  in  the  world's 
judgment,  can  I  think  of  making  you  my  wife? — Yet 
I  must  have  you;  I  cannot  bear  the  thoughts  of  another 
supplanting  me  in  your  affections.  .  . ." 

"But  yet  you  see  the  plea,  my  girl,  which  I  made  to 
you  before,  of  the  pride  of  condition,  and  the  world's 
censure,  which,  I  own,  sticks  a  little  too  close  with  me 
still:  for  woman  shines  not  forth  to  the  public  as  man; 
and  the  world  sees  not  your  excellencies  and  perfec- 
tions: If  it  did,  I  should  entirely  stand  acquitted  by 
the  severest  censures.  But  it  will  be  taken  in  the 
lump;  that  here  is  Mr.  B — ,  with  such  and  such  an 
estate,  has  married  his  mother's  waiting-maid:  not 
considering  there  is  not  a  lady  in  the  kingdom  that  can 
out-do  her,  or  better  support  the  condition  to  which 
she  will  be  raised,  if  I  should  marry  her.  And,  said  he, 
putting  his  arm  around  me,  and  again  kissing  me,  I 
pity  my  dear  girl  too,  for  'her'  part  in  this  censure;  for 
here  will  she  have  to  combat  the  pride  and  sleights  of 
the  neighboring  gentry  all  around  us.  Sister  Davers, 
you  see,  will  never  be  reconciled  to  you;  and  you  will, 
with  a  merit  superior  to  them  all,  be  treated  as  if  un- 
worthy of  their  notice. "^ 


1.  "Joseph  Andrews,**  I,  Ch.  xvil. 

2.  "Pamela,**  I,  Letter  xxxH. 


120  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

Already  Lady  Davers  had  given  him  a  large  piece  of  her 
mind  on  this  subject: 

"Either  you  will  have  her  for  a  kept  mistress,  or  a 
wife,"  she  wrote.  "If  the  former,  there  are  enough  to 
be  had  without  ruining  a  poor  wench  that  my  mother 
loved.  .  .  As  to  the  'other,'  I  daresay  you  don't  think  of 
it;  but  if  you  'should,'  you  would  be  utterly  inexcusa- 
ble. Consider,  brother,  that  ours  is  no  upstart  family; 
but  is  as  ancient  as  the  best  in  the  kingdom !  and,  for 
several  hundreds  of  years,  it  has  never  been  known, 
that  the  heirs  of  it  have  disgraced  themselves  by  un- 
equal matches."^ 

Later  when  informed  by  Pamela  that  she  and  Mr.  E. 
were  married.  Lady  Davers  characterised  her  with  such 
epithets  as  "painted  dirt,"  "baby-face,"  "waiting-maid," 
"beggar's-brat,"  and  "beggar-born."  When  convinced  that 
he  had  actually  married  his  mother's  waiting-maid,  the 
proud  Lady  Davers  committed  her  brother,  body  and  soul, 
to  mother  earth:  "I  thought  you  a  gentleihan  once,  and 
prided  myself  in  my  brother,"  she  cried;  "but  I'll  say  now 
with  the  burial  service,  'Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dirt  to  dirt.'  " 

But  Lady  Davers's  warnings  and  fits  of  anger  did  not 
deter  her  brother  from  marrying  his  mother's  servant,  and 
from  making  her  his  equal  in  social  life.  Moreover,  Pamela 
had  a  brother  whom  Fielding  named  Joseph;  and  this  same 
Joseph,  Lady  Booby  importuned  Adams  not  to  "mister"  to 
her.2  But  when  her  nephew,  Spuire  Booby,  made  Pamela 
his  wife  and  brought  her  to  live  with  them,  he  demanded  of 
his  aimt  that  Joseph  be  admitted  into  the  family  circle,  an 
equal  in  all  respects: 

"They  were  now  arriving  at  Lady  Booby's,  and  the 
squire,  desiring  them  to  wait  a  moment  in  the  court, 
walked  in  to  his  aunt,  and  called  her  out  from  his 
wife,  acquainted  her  with  Joseph's  arrival,  saying, 
'Madam,  as  I  have  married  a  virtuous  and  worthy 
woman,  I  am  resolved  to  own  her  relations,  and  show 
them  all  a  proper  respect;  I  shall  think  myself  there- 
fore infinitely  obhged  to  all  mine  who  will  do  the  same. 
It  is  true,  her  brother  hath  been  your  servant,  but  he  is 


1.  "Pamela,"  Letter  xxll. 

a.  «*J<»eph  Andrews."  Bk.  IV.  Ch.  ii. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  121 

now  become  my  brother;  and  I  have  one  happiness, 
that  neither  his  character,  his  behaviour,  or  appear^ 
ance,  give  me  any  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  calling  him 
so.  In  short,  he  is  now  below,  dressed  like  a  gentle- 
man, in  which  light  I  intend  he  shall  hereafter  be  seen; 
and  you  will  oblige  me  beyond  expression  if  you  will 
admit  him  to  be  of  our  party. . ." 

Soon  afterwards  he  says:  "My  love  to  my  dear  Pamela, 
brother,  will  extend  to  all  her  relations;  nor  shall  I  show 
them  less  respect  than  if  I  had  married  into  the  family  of  a 
duke." 

Fielding,  like  Richardson,  loved  to  give  little  curtain 
lectures  and  set  dissertations  for  the  perusal  of  his  readers. 
In  one  of  these  he  boldly  asserts  that  there  is  no  fundamen- 
tal difference  between  men  of  so-called  "high,"  and  those  of 
"low"  degree.  He  discovered,  as  did  Sterne  later,  that 
"human  nature  is  the  same  in  all  professions."  But  there 
were  those  who  took  great  delight  in  describing  themselves 
as  "high  people"  in  contradistinction  to  "low  people.*'  Those 
who  thought  of  themselves  more  highly  than  they  deserv- 
ed, he  ridiculed  as  hypocrites;  at  the  same  time  he  informed 
men  of  low  birth  that  they  had  been  allowing  themselves 
to  be  deceived  by  distinctions  that  were  only  apparent — 
distinctions  that  were  in  no  sense  real  and  vital.  His  words 
are  clear  and  forcible: 

"These  are  pictures  which  must  be,  I  believe, 
known :  I  declare  they  are  taken  from  life,  and  not  in- 
tended to  exceed  it.  By  those  high  people,  therefore, 
whom  I  have  described,  I  mean  a  set  of  wretches  who, 
while  they  are  a  disgrace  to  their  ancestors,  whose 
honor  and  fortunes  they  inherit  (or  perhaps  a  greater 
to  their  mother,  for  such  degeneracy  is  scarce  credi- 
ble), have  the  insolence  to  treat  those  with  disregard 
who  are  at  least  equal  to  the  founders  of  their  own 
splendor.  It  is,  I  fancy,  impossible  to  conceive  a 
spectacle  more  worthy  of  our  indignation  than  that  of 
a  fellow,  who  is  not  only  a  blot  in  the  escutcheon  of  a 
great  family,  but  a  scandal  to  the  human  species, 
maintaining  a  supercilious  behaviour  to  men  who  are 


t22  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

an  honor  to  their  nature  and  a  disgrace  to  their  f  or- 
tune."i 

In  his  "Dissertation  Concerning  High  People  and  Low 
People,"  he  explains  more  freely  what  he  means: 

"Be  it  known  then,  that  the  human  species  are 
divided  into  two  sorts  of  people,  to  wit,  high  people 
and  low  people.  As  by  high  people  I  would  not  be 
understood  to  mean  persons  literally  born  higher  in 
their  dimensions  than  the  rest  of  the  species,  nor  meta- 
phorically those  of  exalted  characters  or  the  reverse. 
High  people  signify  no  other  than  people  of  fashion, 
and  low  people  those  of  no  fashion.  Now,  this  word 
fashion  hath  by  long  use  lost  its  original  meaning, 
from  which  at  present  it  gives  us  a  very  different  idea; 
for  I  am  deceived  if  by  persons  of  fashions  we  do  not 
generally  include  a  conception  of  birth  and  accom- 
plishments superior  to  the  herd  of  mankind;  whereas, 
in  reality,  nothing  more  was  originally  meant  by  a 
person  of  fashion  than  a  person  who  dressed  himself  in 
the  fashion  of  the  times;  and  the  world  really  and  truly 
signifies  no  more  at  this  day.  Now,  the  world  being, 
divided  into  people  of  fashion  and  of  no  fashion,  a 
fierce  contention  arose  between  them;  nor  would  those 
of  one  party,  to  avoid  suspicion,  be  seen  publicly  to 
speak  to  those  of  the  other,  though  they  often  held  a 
very  good  correspondence  in  private.  In  this  conten- 
tion it  is  difficult  to  say  which  party  succeeded:  for, 
whilst  the  people  of  fashion  seized  several  places  to 
their  own  use,  such  as  courts,  assemblies,  operas,  balls, 
etc.,  the  people  of  no  fashion,  besides  one  royal  place, 
called  his  Majesty's  Bear-garden,  have  been  agreed  to 
be  divided  between  them,  namely,  the  church  and  the 
playhouse,  where  they  segregate  themselves  from  each 
other  in  remarkable  manner;  for,  as  the  people  of 
fashion  exalt  themselves  at  church  over  the  heads  of 
the  people  of  no  fashion,  so  in  the  playhouse  they 
abase  themselves  in  the  same  degree  under  their  feet. 
This  distincton  I  have  never  met  with  any  one  able  to 
account  for;  it  is  sufficient  that,  so  far  from  looking  on 
each  other  as  brethren  in  the  Christian  language,  they 
seem  scarce  to  regard  each  other  as  of  the  same  species. 
This,  the  terms  'strange  persons,  people  one  does  not 
know,  the  creature,  wretches,  beasts,  brutes,'  and  many 
other  appelations  evidently  demonstrate;  which  Mrs. 


1.  '* Joseph  Andrews,"  Bk.  m,  Ch.  i. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  123 

Slipslop,  having  often  heard  her  mistress  use,  thought 
she  had  also  a  right  to  use  in  her  turn;  and  perhaps 
she  was  not  mistaken;  for  these  two  parties,  especially 
those  bordering  nearly  on  each  other,  to  wit,  the  lowest 
of  the  high,  and  the  highest  of  the  low,  often  change 
their  parties  according  to  place  and  time;  for  those 
who  are  people  of  fashion  in  one  place  are  often  people 
of  no  fashion  in  another.  And  with  regard  to  time,  it 
may  not  be  unpleasant  to  survey  the  picture  of  depend- 
ence like  a  kind  of  ladder;  as,  for  instance:  early  in  the 
morning  arises  the  postilion,  or  some  other  boy,  which 
great  families,  no  more  than  great  ships,  are  without, 
and  falls  to  brushing  the  clothes  and  cleaning  the  shoes 
of  John  the  footman,  who,  being  dressed  himself,  ap- 
plies his  hands  to  the  same  labors  for  Mr.  Second-hand, 
the  Squire's  gentleman;  the  gentleman  in  the  like  man- 
ner, a  little  later  in  the  day,  attends  the  squire;  the 
squire  is  no  sooner  equipped  than  he  attends  the  levee 
of  my  lord,  which  is  no  sooner  over  than  my  lord  him- 
self is  seen  at  the  levee  of  the  favorite,  who,  after  the 
hour  of  homage  is  at  an  end,  appears  himself  to  pay 
homage  to  the  levee  of  his  sovereign.  Nor  is  there, 
perhaps,  in  this  whole  ladder  of  dependence,  any  one 
step  at  a  greater  distance  from  the  other  than  the  first 
from  the  second;  so  that  to  a  philosopher  the  question 
might  only  seem,  whether  you  would  choose  to  be  a 
great  man  at  six  in  the  morning,  or  at  two  in  the  after- 
noon. And  yet  there  are  scarce  two  of  these  who  do 
not  think  the  least  familiarity  with  the  persons  below 
them  a  condescension,  and,  if  they  were  to  go  one  step 
farther,  a  degredation.''^ 

The  effect  of  such  heart-to-heart  talks  upon  the  mind  of 
the  masses  must  have  been  considerable.  Here  in  an  inter- 
esting story  readers  met  real,  live  men  and  women  like 
themselves — a  new  thing  to  them.  They  listened  to  these 
people  give  utterance  to  thought,  which,  if  they  themselves 
had  not  yet  dared  to  utter,  reminded  them  that  they  might 
now  do  so  if  they  chose.  They  were  made  aware  that  new 
possibilities  and  new  opportunities  were  theirs,  if  they  set 
about  it  in  earnest  to  realize  them. 

Writing  of  "Pamela,"  Professor  Dobson  says:  "As  the 
Slough  incident  shows,  it  appealed  to  the  humbler  reader  as 
well  as  to  the  person  of  quality;  it  bridged  over  the  then 


1.  **Joaeph  Andrews,**  Bk.  U.  Ch.  xlif. 


124  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

more  widely  trenched  breach  between  rich  and  poor;  for 
who  could  say  that  a  servant-girl  who  played  her  cards  as 
cleverly  as  Pamela  Andrews  might  not  obtain  a  like  re- 
ward ?"i 

Whether  or  not  Mr.  B.  took  the  servant-girl  to  wife  (as 
her  author  claimed)  because  of  the  "transcendent  excellen- 
cies" and  "the  awful  heights  of  virtue"  ascribed  to  her,  we 
may  assume  made  little  difference  to  the  masses  of  readers. 
Pamela,  with  whom  they  identified  themselves,  had  won  a 
"husband"  from  social  ranks  far  above  hers.  This  was  to 
them  the  simple  truth  of  the  whole  matter.  No  wonder  the 
swarthy  blacksmith  rang  the  churchbell  at  Slough  in  honor 
of  the  glorious  victory.  What  it  meant  to  common  people 
— those  weeds  that  grow  "in  the  common  garden  of  crea- 
tion," as  Lady  Booby's  "superior  mind"  conceived  them  to 
be — can  hardly  be  overestimated. 

Fielding  eagerly  seized  the  opportunity  to  ridicule  Pa- 
mela's feigned  virtue — a  task  not  difficult  for  him  to  succeed 
in;  but  he  did  not  ridicule  the  fact  of  her  marrying  Mr.  B. 
Not  only  does  Fielding  allow  Squire  Booby  to  bring  Pamela 
home  to  wife,  but  he  writes  a  dissertation  to  boot,  wherein 
he  exposes  feigned  differences  that  have  long  divided  the 
human  species  into  "two  sorts  of  people."  Undoubtedly 
Fielding  regarded  this  union  as  proper  and  correct,  and 
hence  found  no  sufficient  reason  for  ridiculing  it.  "I  defy 
the  wisest  man  in  the  world,"  he  says,  speaking  through 
Joseph  Andrews,  "to  turn  a  true  good  action  into  ridicule." 
And  if  more  evidence  should  be  desired  to  convince  one  of 
his  sincerity  in  this  matter,  he  would  need  only  to  be  re- 
minded that  for  his  second  wife  Fielding  himself  married  a 
young  woman  who  was  much  below  him  socially — "his  own 
cook-wench,"  Smollett  called  her.  The  union  was  defend- 
ed, too,  by  ladies  of  high  standing,  such,  for  example,  as 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague  and  Lady  Louisa  Stuart.^ 

Thus  in  the  new  kind  of  writing,  destined  soon  to  become 
widely  known,  the  common  people  discovered  two  great 
authors  who  were  championing  their  cause  for  social  equal- 
ity.   But  they  were  not  satisfied  with  the  more  favorable 


1.  Austin  Dobson,  "Samuel  Richardson,"  p.  33. 

2.  W.  L.  Cross,  «"nxe  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  H,  pp.  61-62. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  125 

outlook  for  equality  and  justice  that  these  authors  held  out 
to  them;  the  Englishman's  mind  is  really  never  satisfied. 

Professor  Burton  defines  the  modern  novel  as  "a  study 
of  contemporary  society  with  an  implied  sympathetic  in- 
terest, and,  it  may  be  added,  with  special  reference  to  love 
as  a  motor  force,  simply  because  love  it  is  which  binds  to- 
gether human  beings  in  their  social  relations."^  The  demo- 
cratic tone  of  this  definition  makes  it  no  less  apphcable  to 
most  eighteenth-century  novels. 

As  one  reads  the  novels  of  Richardson,  especially  the 
first  which  Lady  Mary  declared  was  "the  joy  of  chamber- 
maids of  all  nations,"  and  compares  the  subject  of  this 
novel  with  that  of  the  old  romance,  he  is  struck  forcibly  by 
the  love  factor  in  the  Pamela  story.  It  is  hardly  too  much 
to  say  that  love  was  the  greatest  single  force  in  the  process 
of  leveling  what  hitherto  had  been  social  barriers.  It  is 
true  that  Richardson,  speaking  through  Mr.  B.,  greatly  ex- 
agerated  Pamela's  virtue;  but  then  love  is  blind,  so  why 
criticise  Mr.  B.  when  he  declares,  even  against  his  will,  "you 
have  too  much  wit  and  good  sense  not  to  discover  (Pamela) 
that  I,  in  spite  of  my  heart  and  all  my  pride  of  it,  cannot  but 
love  you.  Yes,  look  up  to  me,  my  sweet-faced  girl!  I 
*must'  say  I  love  you. .  ."^ 

Mr.  B.  may  have  been  disillusioned  later — we  leave  that 
to  him  and  to  the  gods — but  we  can  be  absolutely  certain, 
however,  that  he  has  been  captivated  by  the  wit,  the  good 
sense,  and  the  integrity  of  character,  which  are  character- 
istics of  his  mother's  servant.  As  for  Pamela,  there  is  evi- 
dence, and  plenty  of  it,  that  she  was  dissembling  for  a  prize, 
and  that  prize  a  wealthy  husband  who  was  socially  and 
politically  distinguished.  Persons  of  quality,  wedded  to 
social  customs  and  conventions  in  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  could  not  permit  such  an  infraction  without 
protest  from  the  elite;  but  of  what  significance  was  it?  and 
what  did  their  protest  avail?  When  ^e  carefully  analyze 
the  motives  back  of  this  union,  how  far  do  they  fall  short  of 
"human  nature?"  This,  after  all,  was  what  Richardson  and 
every  other  writer  of  the  new  fiction  claimed  to  present. 


1.  Richard  Burton,  "Masters  of  the  English  Novel,**  p.  10. 

2.  "Pamela,**  I,  Letter  xxx. 


126  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

Why  should  a  waiting-maid  be  denied  marriage  to  advant- 
age, if  love  was  at  bottom  the  motivating  force?  But  if 
she  married  for  expediency  only,  ruling  love  out  of  the  case, 
then  of  course  she  is  the  personification  of  deceit,  and  is 
not  worthy  of  our  consideration.  Did  Richardson  exagger- 
ate the  motive,  or  warp  human  nature  in  this  particular? 
He  did  neither;  for  this  story  does  put  love  uppermost. 
Follow  but  a  few  of  the  many  positive  assertions,  and  the 
sentiment  expressed  must  be  convincing: 
On  Monday  Pamela  wrote  in  her  Journal: 

"This  letter,  when  I  expected  some  new  plot,  has  af- 
fected me  more  than  anything  of  *that'  sort  could 
have  done.  For  here  is  plainly  his  great  value  for  me 
confessed,  and  his  rigorous  behaviour  accounted  for  in 
such  a  manner,  as  tortures  me  much.  All  this  wicked 
gypsy  story  is,  as  it  seems,  a  forgery  upon  us  both,  and 
has  quite  ruined  me:  For,  oh  my  dear  parents,  for- 
give me !  but  I  found,  to  my  grief,  before,  that  my  heart 
was  too  partial  in  his  favour;  but  'now'  with  so  much 
openness,  so  much  affection;  nay,  so  much  'honour* 
too  (which  was  all  I  had  before  doubted,  and  kept  me 
on  the  reserve) ,  I  am  quite  overcome.  This  was  a  hap- 
piness, however,  I  had  no  reason  to  expect.  But,  to  be 
sure,  I  must  own  to  you,  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
think  of  anybody  in  the  world  but  him. — Presumption ! 
you  will  say;  and  so  it  is:  But  love  is  not  a  voluntary 
thing:  'Love,'  did  I  say? — But  come,  I  hope  not: — 
At  least  it  is  not,  I  hope,  gone  so  far  as  to  make  me 
'very'  uneasy:  For  I  know  not  'how'  it  came,  nor 
'when'  it  began;  but  crept  it  has,  like  a  thief,  upon  me; 
and  before  I  knew  what  was  the  matter,  it  looked  like 
love. 


"Oh  my  treacherous,  treacherous  heart !  to  serve  me 
thus!  and  give  no  notice  to  me  of  the  mischief  thou 
wast  about  to  bring  upon  me ! — But  thus  foolish  to  give 
thyself  up  to  the  proud  invader,  without  ever  consult- 
ing thy  poor  mistress  in  the  least !  But  thy  punishment 
will  be  the  'first'  and  the  'greatest';  and  well  deserv- 
est  thou  to  smart,  oh  perfidious  traitor!  for  giving  up 
so  weakly  thy  whole  self,  before  a  summons  came;  and 
to  one,  too,  who  had  used  me  so  hardly;  and  when, 
likewise  thou  hadst  so  well  maintained  thy  post  against 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  127 

the  most  violent  and  avowed,  and,  therefore,  as  I 
thought,  more  dangerous  attacks."^ 

Mr.  B.,  whose  "manner",  says  Pamela,  "had  something 
so  noble  and  so  sincere,"  declares  over  and  over  again  that 
love  has  superseded  the  baser  passions,  and  has  become  the 
motivating  and  regulating  force  of  his  behavior  towards 
Pamela.     He  requests  her  to  "invite"  him  into  her  presence: 

"I  will  only  say  one  thing,  that  if  you  will  give  me 
leave  to  attend  you  at  the  Hall  (consider  who  it  is  that 
requests  this  from  you  as  a  *favour'),  I  solemnly  de- 
clare, that  you  will  have  cause  to  be  pleased  with  the 
obliging  remark  of  your  confidence  in  me,  and  consid- 
eration for  me;  and  if  I  find  Mrs.  Jewkes  has  not  be- 
haved to  you  with  the  respect  due  to  one  I  so  dearly 
love,  I  will  put  it  entirely  into  your  power  to  discharge 
her  the  house,  if  you  think  proper.  .  .  Dearest  Pamela, 
answer  favourably  this  earnest  request  of  one  who 
cannot  live  without  you,  and  on  whose  honour  to  you, 
you  may  absolutely  depend. .  ."^ 

Later,  she  says,  "he  was  pleased  to  add  another 
charming  reflection,  which  showed  me  the  noble  sin- 
verity  of  his  kind  profession.  I  do  own  to  you,  my 
Pamela,  said  he,  that  I  love  you  with  a  purer  flame  than 
ever  I  knew  in  my  whole  life;  a  flame  to  which  I  was  a 
stranger.  .  .  And  I  know  more  sincere  joy  and  satisfac- 
tion in  this  sweet  hour's  conversation  with  you,  than 
all  the  guilty  tumults  of  my  former  passion  ever  did, 
or  (had  even  my  attempts  succeeded)  ever  could  have 
afforded  me." 

Such  were  the  sentiments  divulged  by  social  unequals 
some  years  before  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
"Richardson's  novel  (Pamela),  says  Professor  Cross,  "ran 


1.  "Pamela  "  I   Letter  xxxii. 

Fielding'  was  not  content  to  introduce  natural  and  unaffected  love  scenes  in 
his  great  novel;  but  was  inclined  to  preach  against  the  lack  of  genuine 
affections  in  persons  of  quality  and  affluence.  When  Sophia  and  her  lover 
discovered  each  other  in  Lady  Bellaston's  parlor,  Sor>hia  gave  "a  violent 
scream,  and  scarce  preserved  herself  from  fainting  till  Jones  was  able  to 
move  to  her  and  support  her  in  his  arms." 

"To  paint  the  looks  or  thoughts  of  either  of  thfese  lovers,"  he  declares,  "is 
beyond  my  power.  As  their  sensations,  from  their  mutual  silence,  may  be 
judged  to  have  been  too  big  for  their  own  utterance,  it  cannot  be  sup- 

Fosed  that  I  should  be  able  to  express  them:  and  the  misfortune  Is  that 
ew  of  my  readers  have  been  enough  in  love  to  feel  by  their  own  hearts 
what  passed  at  this  time  in  theirs."— "Tom  Jones,"  Bk.  XIII,  Ch.  xi. 
Again  he  says:  "I  am  convinced  there  never  was  less  of  love  intrigue  car- 
ried on  among  persons  of  condition  than  now.  Our  present  women  have 
been  taugh  by  their  mothers  to  fix  their  thoughts  only  on  ambition  and 
vanity,  and  to  dispise  the  pleasure  of  love  as  unworthy  their  regard.  .  .*' — 
"Tom  Jones."  Bk.  XIV,  Ch.  i. 


128  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

its  course  down  through  all  classes  to  the  servant's  hall.  .  ."^ 
There  is  no  mistaking  its  wide  and  effective  influence. 

"Both  the  impatient  seK-assertion  of  the  middle  class, 
and  its  quiet  settling  down  into  censervative  grooves  of 
feeling,  are  thus  foreshadowed.  The  story  of  Pamela  is  an 
illustration  of  the  Christian  equality  of  souls,  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  the  wide-spread  modern  tendency  to  exalt  a  senti- 
mental, theoretical  democracy;  it  breathes,  on  the  other 
hand,  an  involuntary  subservience  to  the  intrinsic  dignity  of 
rank  and  riches. .  ."^ 

Closely  allied  to  the  love  factor  as  a  motor  force  in  fur- 
thering democratic  ideas,  was  the  question  at  issue  regard- 
ing the  choice  of  a  husband.  The  convictions  of  despotic 
parents  and  willful  daughters  differed  widely  on  this  im- 
portant matter — a  matter  of  grave  difference.  Fielding  says, 
that  was  much  too  common.  Richardson  and  Fielding 
make  much  of  this,  and  seem  to  have  succeeded  in  institut- 
ing reforms. 

In  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  the  author  is  clear  and  emphatic: 
Clarissa  refuses  to  yield  to  the  autocratic  will  of  her  father, 
mother,  family,  and  friends  in  the  matter  of  choosing  a 
husband  for  herself.  Her  so-called  stubbornness,  independ- 
ence, and  self-will  bring  down  upon  her  the  condemnation 
of  her  family.     Her  brother  James  writes  to  her: 

"The  Uberty  of  'refusing'  (Solme's  advances),  pretty 
Miss,  is  denied  you,  because  we  are  all  sensible  that  the 
liberty  of  'choosing,'  to  everyone's  dislike  must  follow. . . 

"This  is  the  light  in  which  the  whole  debate  ought  to  be 
taken.  Blush,  then.  Delicacy,  that  cannot  bear  the  poet's 
'amor  omnibus  idem!'  Blush,  then,  Purity!  Be  ashamed, 
Virgin  Modesty!  And  if  capable  of  conviction,  surrender 
your  whole  will  to  the  will  of  the  honoured  pair  to  whom 
you  owe  your  being:  and  beg  of  your  friends  to  forgive  and 
forget  the  part  you  have  of  late  acted."^ 

"Independence"  of  action  Clarissa  later  explains  in  full 
to  Miss  Howe:  ".  .  .  after  I  became  'independent,'  as  I  may 
call  it  (by  which  I  mean  no  more  than  to  have  the  liberty 
of  refusing  for  my  husband  a  man  whom  it  hurts  me  but 


1.  W.  L.  Cross,  "The  History  of  Henry  Fielding,"  I,  p.  355. 

2.  "Cambridge  History  of  Modern  Literature,"  X,  p.  15. 

3.  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  H,  Letter  x. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PIIACTICE  1» 

to  think  of  in  that  light) ;  and  such  as  his  not  visiting  me  but 
by  my  leave "^ 

Clarissa  reports  a  conversation  with  her  aunt  to  Miss 
Howe: 

"What  a  hard  case  is  mine ! — .  . .  How  often,  my  dearest 
aunt,  must  I  repeat  the  same  thing? — ^Let  me  but  be  single. 
— Cannot  I  live  single? — ^Let  me  be  sent,  as  I  have  proposed, 
to  Scotland,  to  Florence,  anywhere:  let  me  be  sent  a  slave  to 
the  Indies,  anywhere — any  of  these  I  will  consent  to.  But  I 
cannot,  'cannot'  think  of  giving  my  vows  to  a  man  I  cannot 
endure ! — "^ 

Later  she  writes: 

"Only  one  thing  must  be  allowed  for  me;  that  whatever 
course  I  shall  be  'permitted'  or  be  'forced'  to  steer,  I  must 
be  considered  as  a  person  out  of  her  own  direction.  Tost 
to  and  fro  by  the  high  winds  of  passionate  control  (and,  as 
I  think,  unseasonable  severity),  I  behold  the  desired  port, 
the  'single  state,'  into  which  I  would  fain  steer;  but  I  am 
kept  off  by  the  foaming  billows  of  a  brother's  and  sister's 
envy,  and  the  raging  winds  of  a  supposed  invaded  author- 
ity; . .  ."3 

Miss  Howe  is  convinced  that  Clarissa  has  done  all  that 
reason  and  justice  can  demand,  when  she  offers  to  remain 
single  all  her  life;  she  writes:  "The  tyrant  word  AUTHOR- 
ITY, as  they  use  it,  can  be  the  only  objection  against  this  of- 
fer."4 

Just  as  Harlowe  had  determined  to  join  his  daughter's 
inheritance  with  Solme's  fortune  regardless  of  Clarissa's 
wishes,  so  Western  looked  forward  to  the  near  future  when 
his  own  and  AUworthy's  estate  would  be  joined  by  the  union 
of  his  daughter,  Sophia,  and  Blifel.  But  Tom  Jones  had  al- 
ready won  Sophia's  heart — which  made  a  difference  to  her. 

This  tyrannical  attitude  of  parents  towards  prospective 
matches  for  their  daughters  is  forcibly  expressed  by  Mr. 
Western,  who,  upon  being  informed  by  Mrs.  Western  that 
his  daughter  Sophia  is  in  love,  cries  in  a  passion:  "  'How! 
in  love!  ...  in  love,  without  acquainting  me!    I'll  disin- 


1.  "Clarissa  Harlowe,  Letter  xili. 

2.  "Ibid.,"  Letter  iii. 

3.  «Ibid.,'»  Letter  xxvii. 

4.  "Ibid.,"  Letter  xlv. 


ISO  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

herit  her;  I'll  turn  her  out  of  doors,  stark  naked,  without  a 
farthing.  Is  all  my  kindness  vor'ur  and  vondness  o*ur  come 
to  this,  to  fall  in  love  without  asking  me  leave?'  *But  you 
will  not',  answered  Mrs.  Western,  *turn  this  daughter 
whom  you  love  better  than  your  own  soul,  out  of  doors, 
before  you  know  whether  you  shall  approve  her  choice. 
Suppose  she  should  have  fixed  on  the  very  person  whom  you 
yourself  wish,  I  hope  you  would  not  be  angry  then?'  *No, 
no,'  cries  Western,  *that  would  make  a  difference.  If  she 
marries  the  man  I  would  ha'  her,  she  may  love  whom  she 
pleases;  I  shan't  trouble  my  head  about  that.'  "^ 

Western  is  changed  instantly  from  rage  to  complacency 
when  he  construed  Sophia's  reply  to  be  acquiescence  in  liis 
whole  soul  was  wrapt  in  hers;  that  her  consent  (for  so  he 
construed  the  words,  *you  know,  sir,  I  must  not,  nor  can  re- 
fuse to  obey  any  absolute  command  of  yours')  had  made 
him  the  happiest  of  mankind."^ 

Concerning  this  episode  in  the  life  of  Western,  Felding 
adds  his  own  criticism:  "Instances  of  this  behavour  in  par- 
ents are  so  common  that  the  reader,  I  doubt  not,  will  be 
very  little  astonished  at  the  whole  conduct  of  Mr.  Western. 
If  he  should,  I  own  I  am  not  able  to  account  for  it;  since 
that  he  loved  his  daughter  most  tenderly,  is,  I  think,  beyond 
dispute.  So  indeed  have  many  others  who  have  rendered 
their  children  most  completely  miserable  by  the  same  con- 
duct; which,  though  it  is  almost  universal  in  parents,  hath 
always  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  most  unaccountable  of  all 
the  absurdities  which  ever  entered  into  the  brain  of  that 
strange  podigious  creature  man."^ 

When  Honour  informed  Jones  that  Sophia  had  been  car- 
ried away  by  her  father  who  was  "swearing  she  should  mar- 
ry Mr.  Blif el,"  Jones's  reply  struck  the  very  heart  of  the  is- 
sue. The  last  sentence  must  have  put  parents  in  mind  and 
convinced  them  that,  henceforth,  a  determined  attitude  to- 
ward this  important  matter,  such  as  it  had  been,  would  no 
longer  be  tolerated.  "  'Indeed,  Mrs.  Honour,  answered 
Jones,  *you  frighten  me  out  of  my  wits.    I  imagined  some 


1.  •'Tom  Jones,»»  Bk.  VI.  Ch.  11, 
a.  "Ibld.,»»  Bk.  VII.  Ch.  Ix. 
3.  ••Ibid./*  Bk.  Vn,  Ch.  Ix. 


IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 


m 


most  dreadful  sudden  accident  had  happened  to  Sophia, 
something,  comparable  to  which,  even  the  seeing  her  mar- 
ried to  Blifel  would  be  a  trifling  incident;  but  while  there  is 
life  there  are  hopes,  my  dear  Honour.  Women  in  this  land 
of  liberty  cannot  be  married  by  actual  brute  force.*  "^ 


t,  'Tom  Jones,"  3k.  XV,  Ch.  vll. 


CHAPTER  VII 
CONCLUSIONS 

The  preceding  chapters  are  intended  to  show  that  the 
rise  of  the  modern  novel  was  not  the  result  of  chance;  and 
that  the  subsequent  development  of  the  new  art  was  not 
haphazard  and  without  design.  The  broad,  fundamental 
principles  that  constituted  the  theory  of  the  novel  after 
1740  give  definite  and  fairly  conclusive  evidence  that  there 
was  unity  in  the  aims  of  the  novelists  throughout  this 
period.  The  main  conclusions  may  well  be  summed  up  in 
this  final  chapter. 

The  new  type  of  fiction  began  with  Richardson's  "Pa- 
mela" in  1740.  The  matter-of-fact  realism  of  this  first 
novel  of  character  continued  in  varying  degrees  through- 
out the  century.  "The  stern  endeavor  to  keep  the  imagi- 
native product  in  harmony  with  the  actual"  was  at  no  time 
seriously  weakened;  not  even  by  those  Gothic  writers  who 
declared  that  it  was  their  intention  to  do  so.  Richardson, 
Fielding,  Johnson,  and  Sterne  assumed  a  directive  and 
dictatorial  attitude  toward  the  realistic — an  attitude  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  mood  of  the  eighteenth  century.  With 
the  accepted  theories  of  human  nature,  authors  were  not 
permitted  to  take  unlimited  freedom.  The  leading  charac- 
ters, the  most  characteristic  conversations,  the  situations, 
and  the  incidents  struck  their  roots  deep  in  human  nature. 
These  internal  features  of  the  novel  evolved  from  a  close 
study  of  real  life — of  contemporary  English  life.  "The 
works  of  fiction,  with  which  the  present  generation  seems 
more  particularly  delighted,"  Johnson  wrote,  "are  such  as 
exhibit  life  in  the  true  state,  diversified  only  by  accidents 
that  daily  happen  in  the  world,  and  influenced  by  passion 
and  qualities  which  are  really  to  be  found  in  conversation 
with  mankind."  It  was  desired  and  expected  of  the  author 
that  he  would  keep  the  plot  and  the  machinery  of  the  piece 
within  the  bounds  of  probability  and  within  the  range  of 
credibility.    The  author  who  disregarded  these  fundamen- 


ir  IN  THEORY  AND  PRACTICE  133 

tal  matters,  did  so  at  the  peril  of  his  literary  reputation. 
"Truth  in  art"  was  the  watch-word  of  eighteenth-cenUiry 
realism. 

Nearly  every  leading  author  of  this  period  announced  in 
his  preface  to  each  novel  a  strictly  moral,  or,  at  least,  semi- 
moral  purpose.  This  bold  profession  was  generally  made 
good  in  the  development  of  the  narrative.  Richardson  was 
eager  to  steal  in  and  investigate  the  great  doctrines  of 
Christianity.  Authors  seem  to  have  taken  their  cue  from 
him  in  this;  at  least  they  do  him  honor  by  following  in  his 
footsteps.  Fielding,  by  far  the  ablest  artist  of  them  all — 
one  who  probably  cared  very  little  for  purely  didactic  sub- 
jects, appears  to  have  been  much  more  concerned  about  a 
moral  purpose  in  "Amelia,"  his  last  novel,  than  he  was  in 
his  earlier  productions.  The  leading  characters  were  gen- 
erally held  up  as  "models  of  prudence,  and  patterns  of  t 
piety."  "Lady  Darnford.  .  .  kissed  me  with  a  kind  of  rap-  ; 
ture,"  Pamela  wrote,  "and  called  me  a  sweet  example  for  \ 
all  my  sex." 

Defection  of  the  Gothic  authors  from  the  established 
principles  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  and  Johnson  was  more 
apparent  than  it  was  real.  The  departure  was  limited 
mainly  to  the  introduction  of  machinery  from  the  Middle 
Age.  But  this  material  was  shorn  of  the  spirit  of  that  time. 
The  professed  desire  was  merely  to  unite  the  ancient  and 
the  modern — the  real  and  the  commonplace  with  the  super- 
natural and  the  fanciful.  The  result  of  this  blending  was 
a  new  type  of  novel,  but  one  that  was  In  some  important 
particulars  not  unlike  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  "The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  and  "Tristram  Shandy."  There  is  really  very 
httle  difference  between  the  sentimentalism  of  Richardson, 
Goldsmith,  Sterne,  and  Henry  Mackenzie,  and  that  of  Wal- 
pole.  Miss  Reeve,  and  Mrs.  RadclifFe.  Very  little  distinc- 
tion can  be  made  between  the  emotions  of  a  man  who  weeps 
from  the  sheer  memory  of  a  sad  tale,  or  from  fear  of  the 
dark  and  things  uncanny,  or  from  a  picturesque  scene  of 
nature.  They  constitute  differences  that  are  without  dis- 
tinction. In  each  instance  it  is  "sensibility,"  defined  by  Mrs. 
Radcliffe  as  a  "dangerous  quality  which  is  continually  ex- 
tracting the  excesses  of  misery  or  delight  from  every  sur- 


134  THE  EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  NOVEL 

rounding  object."  Godwin  of  course  was  radical.  But  the 
radicalism  of  his  political  philosophy  led  him  to  differ  from 
the  realists  in  degree  rather  than  in  theme  or  purpose.  For 
social,  moral  and  religious  reform  of  the  earlier  realists,  he 
deliberately  and  boldly  substituted  political  reform.  They 
believed  that  those  external  influences  that  enter  into  the 
making  of  character  and  opinion,  are  religious  and  moral; 
Godwin  held  that  those  influences  are  political,  and  for 
those  principles  he  contended  in  his  novel  with  all  the  fire 
and  zeal  of  his  soul.  This  deep-seated,  passionate,flaming 
desire  of  Godwin's  for  something  better  than  had  hitherto 
been  known,  lights  up  the  otherwise  gloomy  pages  of  his 
novel;  and  it  hnks  him  in  spirit  with  the  romantic  move- 
ment much  more  closely  than  are  Walpole  and  others  link- 
ed through  the  Gothic  novel.  "  'Caleb  Williams'  is  incom- 
parably the  best  of  his  novels,  and  the  one  great  work  of 
fiction  in  our  language  which  owes  its  existence  to  the  fruit- 
ful union  of  the  revolutionary  and  romantic  movements." 
The  realistic  vein  of  the  eighteenth-century  novel  doubt- 
less made  the  middle-class  of  people  more  conscious  of 
themselves  as  a  class  and  as  individuals — as  men  among 
men.  The  rather  faint  romantic  vein  aided  them  in  at- 
taining a  higher  conception  of  personality. 


^  Gr^JfffM^  p.    1^3. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


(Tlie  following  list  contains  the  most  important  works  referred  to  in  the  text 

and  lootiioles) . 

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Vols.    London,  1804. 

BEERS,  HENRY  A.  "A  History  of  English  Romanticism  in  the  Eighteenth 
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BOSWELL,  JAMES.  "Life  of  Johnson,"  Birkbeck  Hill  Edition,  6  Vols.  Harper 
and  Brothers,  New  York,  1891. 

BURNEY,  FANNY.  "Evelina."  (Introduction  by  Austin  Dobson).  Macmillan 
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BURTON,  RICHARD.  "Masters  of  the  EngUsh  Novel."  Henry  Holt  and  Com- 
pany, New  York,  1909. 

"Cambridsre  History  of  £n£:lish  Literature."     Cambridge:  at  the  University  Press. 

"Critical  Review."     London. 

CROSS,  WILBER  L.  "Tlie  Development  of  the  English  Novel."  The  Macmil- 
lan Company,  New  York,  1900. 

'The   History    of   Henry    Fielding,"   3   Vols.    Yale    University    Press,   New 
Haven,  1918. 

CUNNINGHAM,  PETER.  "The  Letters  of  Horace  Walpole,"  9  Vols.  Henry  C. 
Bohn,  London,  1861. 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN.  "Samuel  Richardson."  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series). 
The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York,  1902. 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO.  "Society  and  Solitude,"  'Books.'  Houghton  Mif- 
flin and  Company,  Boston,  1883. 

FIELDING,  HENRY. 

"Amelia,"  2  Vols. 

"Joseph  Andrews" 

"Jonathan  Wild" 

"Journey  from  This  World  to  the  Next,  A" 

"Tom  Jones,"  3  Vols. 

"Voyage  to  Lisbon,  A" 

The  Complete  Works  of  Henry  Fielding,  Esq.,  with  an  Essay  on  the  Life, 

Genius,  and  the  Achievements  of  the  Author,  by  William  Ernest  Henley, 

LL.D.    Croscup  and  Sterling  Company,  New  York,  1902. 

GODWIN,  WILLIAM.    "Caleb  Williams,"  3  Vols.    London,  1831. 
GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER.    "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."    Cassel  and  Company,  New 
York 

HAMILTON,  CLAYTON.  "Materials  and  Methods  of  Fiction."  (Introduction 
by  Brander  Matthews).    The  Baker  and  Taylor  Company,  New  York,  1908. 

HAZLITT,  WILUAM. 

"English  Comic  Writers" 
"Spirit  of  the  Age,  ITie" 
(Bohns  Standard  Library)     George  Bell  and  Sons,  London,  1886. 

HUNT,  LEIGH.  "Men,  Women,  and  Books."  Smith,  Elder,  and  Company,  Lon- 
don, 1891. 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL 
"Rambler,"  Th« 

"Rasselas,"  (Introduction  by  Henry  Morley).    George  Routledge  and  Sons, 
London,  1884. 

LANIER,  SIDNEY.    "The  English  Novel."    Charles  Scrlbner's   Sons,  New  York, 

1897. 
LEWIS,  MATTHEW  GREGORY.    "The  Monk."     (Edited  by  E.  A.  Baker).    E.  P. 

Dutton  and  Company,  New  York,  1907. 

MACKENZIE,  HENRY.    "The  Man  of  Feeling."    London,  1820. 
MONTAGU,  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY.    Works,  5  Vols.    London,  1817. 
METCALF,     JOHN     CALVIN.     "Henry     Fielding,     Critic"         The     Sewanee     Re- 
view,   XIX,  1911. 


136 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


PERRY,  BLISS.  "A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction."  Houghton  Mifflin  and  Company, 
New  York.  1902. 

PHELPS,  WILLIAM  LLYON. 

"The  Advance  of  the  English  Novel."    Dodd,  Meade,  and  Company,  New 
York,  1916. 

"The   Beginnings   of   the  English  Romantic   Movement."    Ginn   and   Com- 
pany, New  York,  1893. 

RADCLIFFE,  MRS.  ANNE.    "The  Mysteries   of  Udolpho."    Derby  and  Jackson, 

New  York.  1857. 
RALEIGH,    WALTER.    "The    English    Novel."    Charles    Scribner's    Sons,    New 

York,  1894. 
REEVE,  CLARA.    "The  Old  English  Baron."    J.   C.  Nemmo  and  Bain,  London, 

1883. 
RICHARDSON,  SAMUEL. 

"Clarissa  Harlowe,"  8  Vols. 

"Pamela,  or  Virtue  Rewarded,"  4  Vols. 

"Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  7  Vols. 

(Introduction  by  William  Llyon  Phelps).     Croscup  and  Sterling  Company, 

New  York,  1902. 

SAINTSBURY,  GEORGE. 

"A  History  of   Criticism  and  Literary  Taste,"  3  Vols.    Dodd  Meade,  and 

Company,  New  York,  1900. 

"A   Short  History  of  English   Literature."    Macmillan   Company,   London, 

1898. 

SCARBOROUGH,  DOROTHY.  "The  Supernatural  in  Modern  English  Prose  Fic- 
tion."   G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  1917. 

SMOLLETT,  TOBIAS. 

"Adventures  of  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom.  The" 
"Adventures  of  Roderick  Random,  The" 
"Expedition  of  Humphrey  Clinker,  The" 
George  Routledge  and  Sons,  London,  1900. 

"Spectator,"  The 

STEELE,  SIR  RICHARD.  "The  Conscious  Lovers."  (Mermaid  Series).  The 
Best  Plays  of  the  Old  Dramatists.  Edited  with  Introduction  and  Notes 
by  G.  A.  Aitken.     Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1894. 

STEPHEN,  SIR  LESLIE. 

"English   Literature  and   Society  in   the   Eighteenth    Century."    Ford   Lec- 
tures, 1903.    G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London,  1907. 
"The  History  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,"  2  Vols.    G. 
P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York;  Smith,  Elder,  and  Company,  I^ndon,  1902. 

STERNE,  LAURENCE. 

"Sentimental  Journey,  A" 

"Tristram  Shandy" 

The  works  of  Laurence  Sterne.  4  Vols.    Edited  by  James  P.  Browne.  M.D., 

London,  1873. 

STODDARD,  FRANCIS  HOVEY.  "The  Evolution  of  the  English  Novel."  The  Mac- 
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THOMPSON,  CLARA  L.  "Samuel  Richardson,"  A  Biographical  and  Critical 
Study.  (Contains  a  useful  Bibliography.)  M.  F.  Mansfield  and  Company, 
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WALPOLE,  HORACE.  "The  Castle  of  Otranto."  J.  C.  Nemmo  and  Baine,  Lon- 
don, 1883. 

WHITEFORD,  ROBERT  NAYLOR.  "Motives  in  English  Fiction."  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons,  New  York  and  London,  1918. 


INDEX 


Addison,  Joseph,  7,  12.  13,  18,  21 
"Amelin,"    40;    purpose    of,   52-5:5;    54, 
133,  135 

Barbauld,  Anna  L^etitia,  2G,  42,  44,  45 
Beers,  Professor  Henry  A.,  89;  defines 

romanticism,  90;  93,  99,  108,  110,  111, 

135 
Blackwood's,  51 
Browning,  Robert,  22 
Burney,  Fanny,  25,  67,  135 
Burton,  Professor  Richard,  defines  the 

modern  novel,  125,  135 

"Caleb  Williams,"  30:  moral  of,  G4-G5; 

92,  106,  109,  110,  134,  135 

"Castle  of  Otranto,  The,"  31,  32-33;  34, 
.'i6,  41.  64,  67.  86,  87,  88,  101,  102,  103, 
104,  106,  107.  108.  110,  112,  136 

"Cato,"  9 

Character-sketch,  The,  ready  to  the 
novelist's  hand,  11-13;  21 

"Clarissa  Harlowe,"  9,  21,  23,  30,  44; 
purpose  of,  45-48;  51,  56,  66,  67,  71, 
72,  73,  74;  Lanier's  opinion  of,  73;  75, 
87,  98.  113,  116.  128-129,  133,  136 

"Conscious  Lovers,  The,"  9 

Cowper,  William,  92 

Critical  Review.  41,  135 

Cross,  Professor  W.  L.,  9,  10,  26,  38,  39, 
40,  41,  49.  50.  56,  61,  63,  66,  72,  80,  98, 
113,  115,  127-128,  135 

Defoe,  Daniel,  7,  113 

Dobson,  Austin,  68,  123-124,  135 

Dramn..  The.  decadent,  gives  way  to  the 

novel,  8 ;  resembles  the  novel,  9 ;  10 
Dryden,  John,  7 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  on  the  imagi- 
nation, 112  (note) 

Essny,  The,  contributions  to  the  novel, 
11-20 

"Evelina,"  25,  67,  135 

"Ferdinand  Count  Fathom."  41,  136 
Fielding,  Henry,  8,  9;  ridicules  taste 
for  moralizntion,  9-10;  12;  begins 
"Josepli  Andrews"  as  a  parody  of 
"Pamela,"  24-25;  first  to  grasp  prin- 
ciples underlying  the  new  fiction,  27- 
29;  30,  36.  37,  38,  39,  40,  41,  47,  49„  51, 
as  a  reformer.  55;  64,  66,  67,  68;  ridi- 
cules follies  and  vices,  77;  expounds 
meaning  of  the  "ridiculous,"  77-79; 
not  a  religious  enthusiast,  80-81;  84, 

93,  98.  112.  113,  114,  115,  121,  124;  on 
the  lack  of  natural  affection,  127 
(note) ;  128.  130,  132,  133,  135 

Godwin,  William,  exponent  of  social 
and  political  justice,  64;  65,  68,  69, 
72,  92,  113,  114.  115,  133,  135 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  7,  8,  63.  64,  67,  68, 
69,  72.  92.  113.  114,  115,  133,  135 

Gray,  Thomas,  92,  97 

Hazlitt,  William,  29.  68;  three  differ- 
ent kinds  of  the  laughable,  76;  109 


Hedge,    Frederick    Henry,    defines    th« 

romantic,  89;  98 
Hugo,  Victor,  defines  the  romantic;  89 
"Humphrey  Clinker,"  9.3-95,  i:)6 
Hunt,  Leigh,  37 

Jefferson,  Tliomas,  114 

Johnson,  Samuel,  7,  18,  36,  .57,  G4:  on 

the    length    of    Richardson's    novels, 

70;  97,  112,  1.32,  1,3.3,  135 
"Jonathan  Wild,"  53,  135 
"Joseph  Andrews,"  9-JO.  24,  25,  26,  38, 

51,  52.  53-54.  80.  98,  118,  119,  120,  122, 

123,  135 
Lanier,    Sidney,    opmion    of    "Clarissa 

Harlowe,"  73 
Letter.  The.  contributions  to  the  novel, 

20-23;  116 
Lewis,  Mathew  Gregory,  68,  100,102, 103, 

105,  107,  108,  110,  135 

Macrjulay,  Thomas  Babington,  87 
Mackenzie,  Henry,  133  (note),  135 
"Man  of  Feeling,  The,"  most  sentiment- 
al novel,  74  (note) ;  135 

Metcalf,  Professor  John  Calvin,  .37,  80, 

135 
"Monk.  The,"  101.  102.  104,  106,  108,  135 
Mantagu,  Lody  Mary  Wortley,  7-8,  20. 

40,  124,  125,  135 
"Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  The,"  30,  36,  73, 

75,  76,  90.  93,  94,  95,  96,  97,  98,  102, 

104,  110,  135 

Novel,  The,  uncertainty  as  to  exact  be- 
ginning of,  7;  birth  of,  8;  super- 
sedes the  drama,  8;  predestined  suc- 
cess of.  9;  more  serviceable  than  the 
drama,  11 ;  like  the  essay,  11 ;  loose- 
ly constructed  plots  of  earlier  novels, 
13;  epistolary  style  of  writing,  20- 
22;  general  constructive  theories 
comprehended  under  four  principles, 
27;  a  criticism  of  life,  43:  the  moans 
of  reaching  the  inner  life,  (58;  defi- 
nition of  the  modern  novel,  125 

"Old  English  Baron.  The,"  30,  33-35,  64, 
101,  1.36 

"Pamela."  13;  origin  of  the  story,  13- 
18;  22.  24,  44;  26,  29,  42:  purpose  of, 
45,  49,  51,  68.  73.  74,  116-117,  119,  120; 
bridged  gulf  between  rich  and  poor, 
12.3-124;  125-127,  i:2.  135 

Perry,  Professor  Bliss,  truth  the  key- 
note of  the  novelist's  art,  52;  66; 
theory  of  realism,  67;  1.35 

Phelps,  Professor  William  Llyon,  8,  55, 
75.  90  (note),  135 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  108 

Pope,  Alexander,  31,  36,  37,  92 

Radcliffe,  Mrs  Anne.  35,  36,  68;  defines 
the  new  emotionalism,  73;  75,  93,  94, 
97,  99,  133,  135 

Raleigh,  Walter,  9,  12,  25,  36,  43,  55. 
68,  72,  100,  112,  135 

Rambler.  The.  57-61;  135 

"Raaselas,"  18,  19;  purpose  of,  97;  131 


138 


JNDEX 


Reeve,  Clara,  33,  35,  04,  68,  101,  110, 
133,  136 

Richardson,  Samuel,  7,  8.  9,  12,  13;  18, 
20,  21;  theory  of  letter-writing,  21; 
22;  writes  to  Hill,  24;  26,  30,  36,  41, 
42,  43.  45,  47,  48,  49;  criticises  "Tom 
Jones,"  49-50;  his  acquaintance  chief- 
ly among  the  ladies,  51;  52,  55,  67; 
founder  of  a  school  of  novelists,  68; 
69,  70.  71.  72,  75,  84,  85,  93,  98,  112, 
113,  114,  115;  on  the  advantages  of 
the  epistolary  method,  116;  121,  125, 
126,  128,  132,  133,  136 

"Roderick  Random,"  13,  41,  66,  81,  84, 
136 

Saintsbury,    Professor    George,    61,    82, 

83,  136 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  27,  63 
Sewanee  Review,  136 
"Sir  Charles  Grandlson,"  26,  44,  46,  71, 

75,  136 
Smollett,  Tobias,  13,  36,  41;  a  natural- 
ist, 55;  56,  66,  67,  68;  use  of  satire, 

81 ;  94,  98,  103,  124,  136 
Soliloquy,    The,    contributions    to    the 

novel,  22-23 
Spectator,  The,  13,  26,  136 
Steele,  Sir  Richard,  9,  12,  13,  21 
Stephen,    Sir    Leslie,    37;    meaning    of 

sentimentalism,  72  (note)  and  76;  87, 

95,  112  (note),  113,  136 

Sterne,  Laurence,  8,  31,  36,  40,  41,  57; 
characterizes    Shandeism,    57;    influ- 


ence of,  Cl-Qn;,  Gt^  CO,  67,.  68,  69,. 72 
75;  ridicules  affectations,  81;  humor 
of,  82;  tries  to  smash  literary  con- 
ventions, 83-84;  on  the  "reason,"  112 
(note) ;  114,  115,  132,  136 
Stoddard,  Professor  t"rancis  Hovey,  23 
36,  42,  87;  defmes  the  romantic,  89; 
114,  115,  116,  136 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  88 

Tliompson,  Clara  L.,  20.  23,  48,  136 

"Tom  Jones,"  11,  30,  37.  38,  39,  40,  41; 
criticised  by  Hill's  daughters,  49;  52, 
53,  54,  56,  67,  80,  81,  84,  87,  98,  110 
(note),  127   (note),  130-131,  135 

"Tristram  Shandy,"  31-32,  40,  57,  Q?., 
66,  69,  81,  82;  purpose  of,  84;  112 
(note),  133,  136 

"Vathek,"  36 

"Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The,"  63,  70,  75, 
133,  135 

"Vision  of  Mirza,  The,"  closely  resem- 
bles "Rasselas,"  18-20 

"Voyage  to  Lisbon.  The,"  54,  135 

Walpole,  Horace,  8,  20;  attempts  to 
blend  the  wonderful  of  the  old 
stories  with  the  natural  of  modern 
novels,  25;  31,  32,  33,  34,  35,  36,  41, 
64,  65,  67,  68;  writes  concerning  his 
Innovation,  86 ;  87,  88,  93,  99,  101,  102, 
103;  on  the  function  of  terror,  106; 
108,  110,  112,  133,  134,  136 

Whiteford,  Professor  Robert  Naylor, 
19,  136 


"^'^  . 


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